All the Things We Thought We Knew
by 16magnolias
Summary: John, among others, thought that Molly was the last person Sherlock would ever think of. Sherlock thought that Molly was over him. Molly thought that she never had, or would have, any effect on the heart of Sherlock Holmes. In the end, they were all wrong. Spoilers for season 4. T for language and mature themes. Drama and friendship to angst and romance. Sherlolly, in the end.
1. Bleeding Love

**All The Things We Thought We Knew**

 **This will be a multi-chapter fic, because the last episode made me cry my heart out, and I am indignant at the lack of Molly Hooper.**

* * *

 **Bleeding Love**

 _"I need the one person - who, unlike me - learned to see through your bullshit a long time ago."_

 _"Who's that, then? I'm sure I would have noticed."_

 _"The last person you'd think of. I want you to be examined by Molly Hooper."_

 _"Mmm, you're really not going to like this."_

 _-_ John and Sherlock "The Lying Detective"

* * *

 _CLANG._

Molly sighs, staring at the sterilized enterotome she has just dropped, which would now, of course, need to be sterilized _again_.

She breathes in and out evenly for a moment, fingers twitching slightly from exhaustion and stress, just staring at the cursed thing.

It's been weeks since Mary died, since her funeral, and since John and Sherlock have spoken to each other.

She's been _trying_ to help. She's done what she can for Sherlock, but he has retreated into himself with resigned remorse and solemn quietness. He is polite and distant and struggling, but is going through all of the motions – solving cases, eating occasionally, grooming - well enough. And, the last time she saw him – a week ago - at least – he was clean, which she is immensely glad for. All she can do for him now, it seems – is wait. Keep checking up on him, and wait.

John, on the other hand – he is falling.

She _knows_ that losing a loved one is one of the most difficult, painful things to experience in life, and it changes a person. She has experienced it twice before – her mother, at age twelve, and her father – at age twenty-seven. And now, Mary.

But each change John Watson has made to his life has left vibrant red flags waving in their wake. He's switched his hours at work. He's not eating, not regularly. He's not sleeping much, if at all. He stares off into space for long stretches of time, and sometimes – she's caught him mumbling to Mary. She's suggested he try therapy, because it helped her with her parents' deaths. He'd mumbled something to appease her, and she hasn't brought it up again.

Most alarming of all, however, is the fact that he is pushing his old life away – including his daughter, apparently. He accepts when Mrs. Hudson or Molly visit, but only for a few moments, before making excuses and allowing them to see themselves out. He's even gotten a new babysitter for Rosie – which, really, Molly expected him to do – she and Mrs. Hudson can't watch her every time John needs a sitter, of course – but, he's ceased asking the two of them to watch Rosie _at all_ , now. And the few times she's been round during the week, Rosie was not there – he picks her up for the weekends, and then takes her back to whoever knows where for the week.

John Watson has refused Molly's help more and more frequently, and the only other person she knows who _could_ help him, is currently on John Watson's blacklist.

Molly squeezes her eyes shut against the memories of his drawn face and bends down to pick the tool off of the ground, walking slowly to put it back into the autoclave. She will now have to wait an extra thirty minutes for it to cycle through before leaving work for the day. She closes the doors and sets the timer, rubbing her forehead and willing her fingers to draw out the stress from the past month.

When she next opens her eyes, the machine has finished its cycle, and – more carefully this time, she places it with the other instruments before closing and locking the drawer.

She stretches her neck slowly to the right and left as she washes up. After she dries her hands, she retrieves her phone from its spot on the counter, and – as she makes her way to her locker – checks for any missed calls or messages.

Not that she expects any, these days.

A consequence of being drawn into the circle of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. And now that Mary is gone and both Sherlock and John have removed themselves from said circle, she finds it very lonely indeed.

Surprisingly, there are two texts, from Sherlock.

 **Need your help.-SH**

 **Baker Street. -SH**

Molly frowns, and subconsciously quickens her steps. While Sherlock's demands for her assistance have been frequent in the past, this is the first since Mary's death. And he has never phrased it quite like that – he always 'requires her assistance', or some other such nonsense.

If he says that he needs her help so plainly, it is something far more serious than an experiment on decapitated extremities or a desire for her to make a cup of tea and some biscuits.

And, because it is the first time he has asked her, since Mary – though she hasn't slept more than eight hours in the past three days herself – she willingly goes, without complaint.

 **I'll be there in 10. –xMH**

* * *

Molly lets herself into 221 Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson apparently not home, and turns to head up the stairs to Sherlock's door. She knocks as she enters, door unlocked.

"Sher-"

The smell hits her, first.

It is the scent of stale sweat and unwashed body and the peculiar pungency of a cocktail of drugs.

She freezes, exhaling sharply. Her eyes dart around the flat, and as thought upon thought crashes into her, she is overwhelmed - drowning in a sea that is equal parts white-hot anger and cold, exhausted defeat.

"Molly," he greets from the couch, papers and mess and who-knows-what strewn about him. His voice is commanding, but there is a tremor, underneath – a mask of false bravado.

She slams the door behind her, anger and adrenaline clearing fatigue from her mind. She clenches her hands into trembling fists and her back is ramrod-straight.

"At least it's the door, this time." Sherlock's lips twitch and he gives her a surprisingly sober, serious look and sits forward, as though waiting patiently for her to begin an angry diatribe.

She works her jaw and stares him down in silence.

After a moment, he blinks twice, and his brows knit together as he takes her in. "You're tired, Molly."

The words coming from his mouth sound foreign and strange, because he almost sounds _concerned._

"I can explain." His eyes are serious and expectant, and his face, though covered with a slight sheen, is confident. "It's…not for a case." He pauses, tilting his head to the side. "Well, not the usual sort."

She blinks rapidly, mouth twisted downward.

He swallows and adjusts the dirty button up beneath his dressing robe. He looks up and raises his eyebrows, corner of his mouth twitching downward. "Laptop, please." He gestures to his laptop, which is currently sitting, closed, on John's chair, no more than two meters away.

She'd like to tell him to just _stop_ – to shut up – to bugger off – to think of Rosie – to think of John – to _think_ to _think_ to _think_ \- but though her jaw is moving, she can't seem to push any words from the lump in her throat.

So instead, she turns on her heel –

Sherlock's head jolts up – " _Molly" –_

and she jerks the door open with just a little too much force –

He scrambles to stand, and lunges for the laptop – " _Wait" –_

She slams the door behind her, but it bounces.

He frantically opens the laptop, punches in his password, and clicks on the minimized screen, turning the volume all the way up and pressing _play_.

Molly is halfway down the stairs when Mary's voice stops her.

 _"Hello, Sherlock. If you're watching this, I'm probably dead-"_

Molly freezes, and for a moment, she cannot hear, for all the blood rushing in her ears.

 _"- save John Watson-"_

She turns and grips the rail with her trembling hand until her knuckles turn white, chin tucked to chest as Mary's words bounce down the narrow stairwell and around and around in her head.

"- _pick a fight with a burglar-"_

Her heart fights in her chest, trying to escape her ribcage.

" _Because the only way to save John Watson-"_

Molly's chin trembles.

Don't say it don't say it don't say it.

"- _is to make him save you."_

She squeezes her eyes shut against the sudden prick of tears.

 _"Go to hell, Sherlock._ "

She swallows.

There is silence, and the video is done.

And, just like that – her burning anger leaves, carried away on the echoes of Mary Watson's voice.

It leaves her thirsty and dry, a shriveled thing.

Molly looks up at Sherlock, eyes wide – willing her unshed tears to evaporate instead of fall.

She shifts on the stairs, moving slowly up one – and then taking the rest all at once.

She stands before Sherlock and meets his gaze – his distress quickly giving way to relief – _not triumph, never triumph, with her_ – and then Molly takes the laptop out of his hands.

Doing her best to ignore her surroundings, for the moment, Molly finds a (relatively) clean spot on the floor and sits, cross-legged, and places the laptop on the coffee table.

Sherlock closes the door behind him, uncertain.

She closes her eyes for a moment, takes a fortifying breath, and opens them again.

Molly watches Mary's message twice more, before turning to face Sherlock, who has settled himself on the edge of the couch.

"It's for John," he says, and the rawness of his voice makes her heart ache, though she tries not to let it show on her face. "I – have a plan."

Not wanting to look up at him any longer, she picks herself up off the floor, shutting the laptop as she does so. She sits in Sherlock's chair, back straight, and forces herself to lift her chin as she stares fiercely at a spot behind him on the wall.

"Tell me."

And he does.

* * *

For once, Sherlock Holmes is the one left waiting on Molly Hooper.

He explains his plan – a regularly scheduled dose of carefully crafted homemade drugs, to keep up the appearance of addiction too far gone (she narrows her eyes at the phrase 'appearance of addiction') - culminating in Mrs. Hudson forcing him at gunpoint into her car _(Mrs. Hudson has a car?)_ and driving to John Watson's new therapist. Mrs. Hudson will convince John to see Sherlock again, if only as a doctor – and John Watson, not trusting Sherlock's appearance or his own observations (dulled by grief and sleeplessness), will require a second opinion. This, Sherlock explains, is where he will need Molly. He stands, and pulls a card out of his dressing gown pocket, reaching her in two strides.

"I will need you to bring a fully stocked ambulance to this address. Time and date are on the back, along with…" he closes his eyes and scowls – "a number you can call if you have trouble with the ambulance. If you say it is for me, I can guarantee that you will have no trouble."

He holds the card out for her, but she makes no move to take it. His hand trembles, and he swallows uncertainly.

"Go on," she says evenly, eyes fixed at the same spot on the wall.

He leaves the card on the armrest and returns to the couch, rubbing one hand over his face, before collapsing backward into the couch. He presses both palms into his eyes and groans, staying that way for a moment, before leaning forward suddenly, elbows propped on his knees and face propped in his unsteady hands.

"And we will go to catch a serial killer."

He explains the rest of his plan, from recorders in his coat to John coming to rescue him at the last possible second, if being confronted by his daughter does not nudge Culverton into confessing – which hinges, Molly thinks, an awful lot on his drug-addled predictions on how Culverton will react, and how John will react, and on Sherlock's ability to act like he's on the high of his life when really, he's just buzzed, and on a whole host of other things that Molly places very little trust in.

Sherlock finishes his explanation, but his voice has moved from confident and matter-of-fact to a strange blend of pleading and mocking. "And then John will have saved me from both Culverton and myself, and he will forgive me, and we'll have saved John, and you'll all treat me like an infant until I'm satisfactorily clean again, and we will continue solving cases and raising Rosie and waiting on Moriarty to make his move-"

"-and we'll all live happily ever after," Molly finishes, a short, bitter laugh escaping.

It is a tiny thing, but she sees Sherlock's brows tense, just a bit, and his lips part hesitantly.

She is throwing him off, and she knows it, and it is a paltry salve on her wounded, weary heart.

Still, though she hates it – she _hates_ it – she knows.

Molly knows that Mary is right. She could not explain it in words, before, but Mary has summarized so succinctly what Molly has witnessed this past month – John Watson will not allow himself to be saved, but he _will_ be saved, if he can rescue someone else.

But helping Sherlock in this way – allowing him to inject himself with all sorts of chemicals that will slowly eat away at his body and mind, the body and mind that she holds so very dear – goes against _everything_ she stands for. Every piece of her – every bone, every ligament, every cell in her body – is screaming out against Sherlock's _plan_.

She is not ready to commit to it, not yet.

"And the drugs. Did you choose that part of your plan because of John's supposed reaction, or because it was easiest for you?"

Sherlock swallows. "None of this is easy, Molly." His voice is wary, and there is an anxiety in his eyes that was not there before. "But no. I also need Culverton to believe that I am an unreliable witness." He leaves it at that.

Molly shivers, and her stomach churns, hot and cold. "Why – why invite me here, now? Why show me all of this? Why not just – I dunno – text me a time and address and 'Molly I need an ambulance on this date at this time'? Was it – was it just to avoid a scene like this?" She grimaces in distaste.

Sherlock's mouth twitches up at one corner. "Partly. And partly," he answers ruefully, "because while I am quite confident in my predictions and my abilities – there is, of course, the smallest of possibilities that I am wrong, and that John will not forgive me, this, ever-" his voice trembles, just a bit – "and that I will not make it out of Culverton's hospital of hell alive."

He looks up at her, and his expression is open and pleading. "I need _you_ , Molly. I trust you. John trusts you. I need you to help me save John, and I need you to be…to be there. You'll know where the four recordings are, to convict Culverton, should something happen to me." He hesitates – "- and you'll know the truth."

For the first time since he has begun his explanation, she meets his gaze. He is a man reluctantly resigned to his fate, willing to ruin himself ( _again_ ) to save his friends and regain what was lost.

Her heart breaks, for the hopelessness of it all.

"I asked you here," he repeats firmly, "because I wanted you to know the truth."

And she hears what he is saying, though he is not explicitly saying it.

 _I want you to know that I am not just a hopeless junkie._

 _I did not start using again for purely selfish reasons._

 _I value your opinion of me, so much so that I cannot bear to allow you to think I am as far gone as I appear._

"But John _cannot_ know." He warns, bringing her focus back to the problem at hand.

She closes her eyes, and breathes in.

 _All of the excuses. All of the plans. All of the reasons. All of the pain. All of the love, in the midst of it all._

 _He has made his plan, and she cannot change it – but she can be a part of it._

She opens them, and exhales slowly, and her decision is made.

"Okay," she says, and she has never been more uncertain of anything in her entire life – and that includes Sherlock's last flirt with death.

"Okay?" He repeats, and his eyebrows rise a fraction in carefully concealed reprieve.

"Okay," she confirms. "But – I have some conditions."

* * *

Molly stands straight, hands behind her back, eyeing both men down, taking their measure and grudgingly accepting their sincerity.

She has inspected Sherlock and Wiggin's makeshift meth lab, and has carefully removed any pieces of equipment she has deemed damaged and unsafe, from a scientific perspective. She has made arrangements to replace them by tomorrow morning. She has double-checked their stash of needles – _you're doing enough damage, don't need to risk hepatitis or HIV on top of that –_ and has promised sterile needles, if they need more. "You will contact _me,_ Billy – _me_ – if you need any more replacements, or have any doubts about your calculations. Do you understand?"

Wiggins swallows, eyes wide and disbelieving, and shoots a glance toward the unshaven, smirking man beside him. "Shezza-" he protests –

"-better do as she asks, _Billy-_ " the man in question responds, obviously enjoying himself, beneath a mask of jittery annoyance.

"And _you_ ," she accentuates, turning to Sherlock – " _you_ will text me _every day_."

Sherlock scowls, but Molly cuts him off before he can even part his lips.

"You will text me _every day_ , even if it is just one word to let me know you are alive."

Sherlock rolls his eyes, and Molly turns to Wiggins. "Make sure he texts."

Back to Sherlock, frowning again. "You can't 'save John Watson' if you're _dead_ , Sherlock."

She takes a step back, face twisting into a tired grimace, and surveys the flat before turning a hard eye on the two men still standing before her. "Promise me?" she asks, and her soft voice cuts them like a knife.

Billy nods, eyebrows lifting in surprise at Sherlock's equally soft, cutting reply. "I don't make promises anymore, Molly Hooper."

* * *

She raises an eyebrow at him, unimpressed. "If you fail to text me by midnight every evening, I will call in _all_ the reinforcements-"

Sherlock's eyes narrow at her threat –

"- _all_ of them," she repeats firmly. "Including your brother. And you can figure out another, less self-destructive plan to save John Watson."

"That's kind of the _key point_ , isn't it – the _self destructive_ bit?" He replies sarcastically.

"Then _promise_ me, and it won't be a problem, will it?"

He glares at her serious, drained face for a moment, before his expression softens slightly around the eyes. "Fine. I promise." He holds up his pinky mockingly. "Shall we swear on it?"

Surprisingly, she hooks her pinky around his, face open and somber, mouth turning up at the edges for the first time all day. "Pinky swear," she whispers, holding him there - the whole plane of his existence hinged on that fixed point.

She releases him seconds later, and her face is all business once again. "Remember, Sherlock – it's not just John who'll never forgive you if you die, in this."

He blinks in surprise, and by the time he has regained his footing, she has already collected her things to go. She pauses by the door, studying her shoes thoughtfully.

"I cannot come here again," she says, voice low, "when it's – when you're – like this."

"I know," he responds, not bothering to apologize or thank her. She will not have it, not when it is only going to get worse from here. "See you in two weeks."

* * *

 **Thank you for reading!**

 **I am convinced, due to Molly's lack of emotion in the ambulance scene, that she knew at least part of Sherlock's plan. Also - he asked her if she remembered his coat - and weren't most of the recording devices planted in there? Suspicious. Very suspicious.**

 **I also believe that Sherlock did not consider going to drugs, again, until seeing Mary's video. He was clean in the scene when he and Mrs. Hudson got the recording, and I like to think he would have stayed that way.**

 **Next up: The ambulance scene.**

 **Thanks again!**


	2. Like Clockwork

**Like Clockwork**

 _"Is Molly really the right person to be doing medicals? She's more used to dead people. It's bound to lower your standards."_

 _-_ Mrs. Hudson, "The Lying Detective"

* * *

The thing about ambulance bays, Molly thinks, is that they are so unpredictable. Sometimes they are frantic with energy - sound and movement and high emotion building into one discordant triad. And at other times, they are quiet and empty and you'd never imagine that an hour before they housed all the hurried fervor of Life trying desperately to hang on to its own.

Molly is not sure if she is grateful to be waiting for Sherlock's ambulance to depart during a lull, or if she wishes more that there were something loud and pressing distracting her from what lies ahead.

Not that she _wants_ someone to need an ambulance ride to the hospital! Oh, gosh – she has now, she supposes, mastered the art of putting one's foot in one's mouth, simply by _thinking._

So Molly bounces on her toes beside the idling ambulance, biting her lip, eyes darting around as she waits for the driver to tell her she's ready to go.

She mentally runs through the list of things Sherlock has given her to do, in her part of the plan. Fully stocked ambulance and two recording devices in his Belstaff, which was waiting for him in the back – an obvious one in the pocket, another sewed into a button. A third, in John's cane – though Molly hadn't the foggiest idea how that would help, as John hadn't used the cane in years - and how Sherlock thought it would end up in hospital with him was anyone's guess. He'd wanted a fourth, a thin wire that would adhere to the seam beneath the lapels of his coat – but it was supposed to have arrived this morning, it hadn't, and Molly did not have the time, knowledge, or skill set to hunt such a thing down. She'd considered texting Sherlock about it, but he'd been very clear that he was not to be contacted on the day of _the plan_.

"Ready, Doctor?" The EMT nods to Molly, breaking her out of her endless loop of ticking boxes on an invisible list.

Molly squares her shoulders and flashes her a brief, uncertain smile. "Yes - yes thanks."

"Right, then. Riding in back or up front, on the way there?"

"Oh – um, up front, I suppose -"

The paramedic nods, locks the back doors, and opens the passenger door for Molly, before moving around to the other side of the vehicle and climbing into the driver's seat.

The engine revs and Molly is about to hoist herself up into the passenger's side, when a voice calls "Ey – wai', miss- " and a hand grabs her wrist.

She startles and looks to its origin, and a scruffy man in scrubs with a surgical mask in place over his nose and mouth quickly releases her arm. She steps off of the riser, and stands next to the ambulance, peering closer in disbelief. " _Billy?"_ She whispers incredulously.

He gives her a hard look and pulls his face mask down in clear annoyance. "Well, wha' was the point of wearin' _this,_ then, if you're jus' gonna blow my cover?"

Molly purses her lips, trying to tame her wildly beating heart. "You do know that most doctors have _neatly_ trimmed facial hair, Billy, and don't wear their surgical masks in the car park."

He crosses his arms and scowls. "I'll 'ave _you_ know-"

Molly darts a quick glance around before interrupting. "What was it you're here for, Billy?"

"Ah – righ'." He gives a sharp nod and pulls the mask back over his face, and Molly can't help the amused twitch of her lips, though she keeps her stern look focused on the strangely endearing, ridiculous man in front of her.

" I'fink you dropped this," he says, fumbling a small, thin plastic bag off from around his wrist - the sort you'd find in a cosmetics store when the only thing you're buying is mascara or lipstick. He holds it out impatiently and gives it a little shake.

Molly frowns for a split second before her eyebrows rise in understanding. _The last recorder._ "Billy, why not just _tell_ me that it's-"

"Ssshhhhhh!" He hisses, glaring at her.

She blinks, confused.

He inclines his head toward the waiting ambulance. "Shezza 'ad a feelin' 'is brother might've…you know. Better be safe 'n sorry." He waggles an eyebrow cryptically.

Molly raises an eyebrow, but she makes no further argument. "Right. Thanks for the _lipstick_ , Billy."

Knowing she'll have to multitask and adhere the wire to the lapels on her ride with Sherlock (shouldn't take more than a few minutes), she takes the bag and goes to fold it over and put it in the oversized pocket of her lab coat.

Once again, however – Billy Wiggins clears his throat and gives his head a miniscule shake before tilting it toward the open ambulance door, where the EMT is patiently waiting for Molly to ride shotgun.

Molly's brows draw together – now, apparently, she couldn't even put the thing in her pocket? She'd give him that there was a chance it could fall out, but _really_? Even if Sherlock was right and the driver made a report to Mycroft – what would seeing a single recording device tell them? That Sherlock was planning to record something? And darn women's pants pockets are never big enough to hold a razor-thin phone, let alone to hide a coiled wiry recording device…thing. _Then where the heck was she supposed to hide it?_

"I thought you were ready, doctor?" The paramedic calls, reminding her that to idle much longer would be a waste of gas and carbon emissions.

 _Sod it._ Frayed nerves provoking her to carelessness, Molly turns slightly toward the ambulance wall, out of sight of the driver and shielded from onlookers by Sherlock's druggist-turned-delivery boy. She pulls the wire out of the cosmetics bag, taking a few sparse seconds to look it over. It is about as wide as a hairpin, wound into a loop the width of pencil and encased in a flimsy plastic cover of its own, along with a thin, flat piece of plastic and metal that Molly assumes it must transmit to. All together, the plastic sheeting is about the size and thickness of a CD case. She then quickly shoves the crumpled bag in her lab coat pocket before stuffing the packaging with the thin, coiled wire down her shirt. She fumbles awkwardly for a moment, tugging her shirt and moving the wire down until it sits below and off to the side of her left breast, resting just above the waistline to her pants. She readjusts her blouse, making sure it is still tucked in, adjusts her cardigan and lab coat, and then gives her messenger a winning, flustered smile.

"Well, that's that, then, isn't it. Thank you."

Billy blinks in shock. "I don' fink that's _exactly_ wha' Shezza had in mind."

"Well, too bad for _Shezza_." Molly shakes her head once and climbs into the passengers seat, apologizing for the delay and shutting the door before checking the ambulance's GPS to be sure (for the fifth time) that the address they are traveling to is correct.

* * *

They travel without sirens, and Molly is grateful for the lack of assault on her ear drums. Nervousness causes her to jiggle her right leg up and down and pick at the cuffs of her lab coat. The flimsy plastic cover encasing the hidden wire is starting to stick uncomfortably to her torso, and she wishes she'd thought to just tell the driver she'd changed her mind and wanted to ride in the back. She hasn't frequently traveled to this part of the metropolitan area, and it is getting prettier as they go, from what she can tell on the highway. Still, most of it passes by her faraway eyes without committing any of it to memory, so lost is she in her thoughts.

After a few moments, Molly pulls out her phone, and opens her text messages. She smiles a pinched, relieved sort of smile as she clicks on Sherlock's name, and the texts from the past fortnight appear to reassure her that she is, in fact, not crazy, and that he is still alive.

 **Need your help. – SH**

 **Baker Street. - SH**

 **Alive. -SH**

 **Alive. -SH**

 **Alive. -SH**

 **Still alive. -SH**

 **Living. -SH**

 **Existing. -SH**

 **Breathing. -SH**

 **Bored. -SH**

 **Dead. -SH**

On the same day, less than five minutes later –

 **Joking. Don't call 'reinforcements'. –SH**

 **Flourishing. -SH**

 **Thriving. -SH**

 **Present. –SH**

 **Alive. –SH**

 **See you tomorrow. –SH**

Each word drives a drum beat into her heart and mind that he is _alive – alive – alive_ – at least for today.

She closes her eyes and leans back into the seat, focusing on breathing – in, and out, even and measured – _alive, alive, alive._

All too soon, they arrive in front of a lovely suburban ranch with an impressive red hotrod and two police cars parked haphazardly out front, and a helicopter flying overhead.

"Doctor?" The paramedic peers out the windshield, taking in the scene before her. "This the place, then?"

Molly looks to the roof of the ambulance, trying to draw strength from the shiny metal interior. "Yes," she sighs, and it comes from a place deep within her soul. "Yes, this is the place."

And Molly makes her way to the entrance and rings the doorbell, knowing – and yet so uncertain of – what lies ahead.

John answers. He is tired and tense with anger and frustration, but he is alert and focused, involved in this – and it is more than she can say about anything else she's seen him experience since Mary died.

Their exchange is a blur to her, but luckily, John attributes her nerves and inability to say much of anything intelligible to her shock and disgust at Sherlock using again – not that she has much time to get a word in edgewise, in all of the chaos.

She follows a swaggering Sherlock back to the ambulance, knowing her part in the plan isn't half over.

* * *

She hoists herself into the back of the ambulance and pulls the door shut, and Sherlock has already given the next location to the ambulance driver before shutting the small window that separates them. He sits on the stretcher, bouncing slightly.

He offers her a manic grin, and her doctor's eyes take him in. _Unshaven - sunken eyes – hollow cheeks – yellowish tint to the skin, with bruises and puncture marks peeking from beneath shirtsleeves – trembling hands, bouncing knees – heels tapping floor in irregular rhythms –_

She hasn't even begun her examination, and she doesn't like what she sees. The ambulance lurches a bit as it begins its journey, and she reaches a hand out to the nearby wall to steady herself.

Sherlock's grin falls a fraction of an inch as he takes in her expression, and he leans forward conspiratorially. "Ah, but you must _remember_ Molly-" he sweeps his arms out in a grand gesture – "that _all the world's_ _a stage_ , and – I've written the play." He gives her a smug smirk.

He definitely is not faking _this_ high – although he does seem to be relatively in possession of his faculties. Molly sighs. "Get undressed, Sherlock."

His smirk does not leave his face, but he raises his eyebrows in rogueish concern. "What, no foreplay doctor?" Still, he begins unbuttoning his shirt with a dexterity that surprises Molly, for all the shaking his hands were doing seconds ago.

"You wanted a _full_ medical, so you're getting one." Although Sherlock suggested it, she is not going to allow him to change his mind in favor of a quick once-over. They need to know the extent of the damage to his body, so that they know exactly what solution to arrange to have placed in his IV, should he end up in a hospital bed and at Culverton's mercy.

She swallows and turns to the ambulance's well stocked cabinets, before a corner of the wire's packaging pokes her in the ribs. _Damn._ She pulls off her lab coat and cardigan, throwing them beside Sherlock's Belstaff on the bench. She attempts to just thread the recording device through the gap between buttons, but finds that it just won't bend enough to fit.

She bunches some of the fabric from her blouse in her fist, intending to untuck it, but images of the wire falling out and sliding beneath a cabinet or falling _down_ her trousers are even worse than the idea of Sherlock making a comment for unfastening a few buttons.

An unwanted blush rising in her cheeks, she begins to unbutton her blouse as quickly as possible, nerves making her normally nimble hands fumble. She wants this over and done with, as quickly as possible.

She's almost got it when Sherlock's uncertain voice gives her pause.

"Molly?"

* * *

 _The plan._

 _The plan is finally coming together, each piece fitting together like the finest teeth on the cogs in clockwork, ticking along in perfect time - each unwitting thespian taking the stage in predictable routine, playing their part to unsuspecting perfection._

Sherlock is about as high on his abilities to predict the every action and reaction of the people in his life as he is on the _actual_ cocktail that he and Billy created for him just hours ago.

Never mind that his fingers continue shaking after his purposeful demonstration for John, or that the muscles in his back and chest spasm occasionally, or that his mind jumps and skips and refocuses with a ferocity that creates a dull ache just behind his eyes.

He has been working so close to the edge, and he does not dwell on how much longer he can stay the course without falling dangerously over it.

 _It is almost over, now._

He has already taken off his shirt and belt and has begun to unbutton his slacks when he looks up, and the shock of Molly Hooper unbuttoning her blouse in front of him makes him sit down, hard, on the stretcher behind him.

 _In all the time they've spent together – all the nights he's spent in her bedroom, all the times he's broken into her flat unexpectedly – she has always maintained the highest measure of modesty. The least he's ever seen her in is a form-fitting T-shirt and pajama shorts. He tries to find an explanation as to why she would suddenly forgo that modesty here and now, because this – this was not part of the script. She is improvising, and it causes his mind to shift the spotlight of his masterful performance onto her._

She is facing away from him, one leg and hip pressing hard against the ambulance's supply shelves to keep her balance. All he can see is - (though he's not _trying_ to see, he tells himself harshly - it's just very close quarters, and he is attempting to deduce _why_ she would experience the urge to disrobe before him) – she's only gone halfway down, and all he can see is a faded taupe bra strap taut on her freckled shoulder and the gentle curve of her chest before she reaches into her shirt, down past her breasts, and frowns. Her brows draw together in concentration before his voice gives her pause.

"Mmm-olly?" He draws out her name, tone uncertain and warning. It concerns him that he cannot immediately brush this off, that he cannot dismiss this reel of images as unimportant.

At his voice, a flush creeps down her neck. He swallows, and his eyes narrow, blinking, seeking to focus elsewhere, but they keep darting back to her.

She quickly grasps what she is searching for, and draws her hand out, half-heartedly waving the last recording device into his line of vision.

She does not see it, but his face visibly relaxes with relief and understanding. _The wire._

Her voice is indignation masking the slightest of embarrassments. " _Your_ drug dealer's the one who said I had to hide it!" She grips her blouse closed with her free hand, turning slightly and fumbling with the package, tucking it carefully into a cranny on the shelf beside her.

"He's a chemist, not a dealer," Sherlock corrects automatically. _Button up, Molly._ She is distracting, and the fact is not one he wants to dwell on. "And why not just put it in your pocket?" He sounds acerbic, now, but it's better than uncertain. He needs confidence oozing out of every pore, for the rest of his act today.

Luckily, she has haphazardly buttoned up her blouse, swaying slightly as the ambulance makes its way through a round-about. In her haste, the buttons don't match up exactly, and he'd like to fix them – like _her_ to fix them – of course – but it's a background thought, and it doesn't matter at the moment.

She gives him a hard look, or tries to - but her lips are still twitching awkwardly, the way they used to when he'd given her a compliment and she was hit with a wave of self-consciousness that he'd _noticed_ her. She crosses her arms across her chest, and it's a coping mechanism – but it _works_ , because when she addresses him, the embarrassment has faded, and her voice is strong and irritated.

"Because, Sherlock Holmes – women's pants pockets aren't made wide enough to hold an _iPhone_ , let alone a pre-packaged high tech spy device, and when I _tried_ to put it in my lab coat, _Mr_. _Wiggins_ acted like the mere _sight_ of a recording device in my pocket would alert Mycroft to your 'secret plan' and ruin everything."

"Who would even see it?" He asks skeptically, pulling a face.

Molly gestures to the closed window that separates them from the driver.

Sherlock's brows draw together. "Marie? She's one of mine. I intercepted Mycroft's driver last night."

Molly closes her eyes. "Of course you did."

Sherlock shakes his head, peering at her. "Still don't understand why you wouldn't've just put it in your pocket. Could have had a nice chat with Marie about how it was none of her business, if it came to that." His words are fast and deliberate.

"Well Billy was the one who showed up last second, looking like an extra from the set of Grey's Anatomy, and playing James Bond!"

"James Bond?" Sherlock asks, now genuinely confused.

"Yes, James Bond, you know – double – oh – seven? Secret agent in Her Majesty's service? He was wearing scrubs and a _surgical mask_ , Sherlock. In the car park."

Sherlock's face suddenly relaxes into a very amused smirk. "Scrubs and a surgical mask?"

"Yes!" She exclaims crossly, and he cannot help the amused smile threatening on his face.

It has caused her undue stress, and he should feel badly about that, but he is so relieved that her cause for nearly baring herself is something so – _mundane_ , so easily filed away and forgotten, that he can't help it. He raises his eyebrows in shared camaraderie, knowing she'll get the joke – she'll understand, as she always does – "I told him to be _discreet_ , Molly."

And now she's biting her lip, trying to keep a smile at bay herself. They stare at each other for a split second, lips pressed together and eyes bright, before Molly breaks down and snorts.

"Well, apparently he thought discreet meant treating everyone around him like some sort of super spy."

And Sherlock lets out a short burst of laughter, and it's not _that_ funny – it's really not – but he hasn't laughed – hasn't properly laughed – since before Mary died, and he thinks – neither has Molly – and he can't help it – he grins at her. "And you recognized him right off?"

Molly nods, tense smile slowly giving way to a more genuine article – "Oh, right away. He was very put off."

The serious tone of her voice makes him laugh louder, and it feels glorious – _a brief burst of endorphins, worming their way through his weary nervous system, lifting him up and moving him further from the edge_ , _and he thinks he'll steal this moment – this brief intermission – before he pushes himself through the final act._

And Molly coughs to cover up a laugh of her own, but she doesn't succeed for long. "He even-" she _giggles_ briefly, and another rush of endorphins floods his system and lifts the corners of his mouth, tugging his heart up along with them – "he even said 'I think you dropped this'." Her voice drops down in a gravelly imitation of Billy's, and there is a split second of silence before they both burst into laughter.

"-and – and that you suspected Mycroft of placing the driver as a spy-" she presses the back of her hand to her mouth, trying not to laugh again, because though it _was_ ridiculous – _she_ believed him, too.

"-So your only _logical_ course of action was to stuff it down your shirt?" He's poking fun at her now, but she doesn't mind – she's shaking her head, smiling to herself, before –

"We were running out of time!"

Their faces mirror each other as the words leave her lips – expressions freezing for a moment, taking in the sober reminder and applying it to their present situation – mouths turn down, and eyes blink, returning to the seriousness of the task at hand.

 _And the short interlude ends, and the actors resume playing their characters, and that mantle is heavier, now, than it was before._ He's not sure he likes this metaphor any longer.

He quickly finishes undressing, covering himself with the sheet Molly has left folded at the end of the stretcher, and he notices, suddenly – that her lips are chapped, and that there are dark circles under her own eyes, and how dry and pale her skin is, as she hands him a bottle of water.

"Drink it," she orders softly, and her hands are busy, ripping the plastic packaging off of the wire recorder, and peeling off the adhesive to carefully wind it around his turned-up-lapels.

"Mmm, don't think so, doctor." He flashes her a half-hearted grin that quickly falls back into a look of concentration. "Can't have me interrupting my performance to take a wee."

"Well, you could certainly use to wee in a few jars, again," she fires back, more focused on finishing her task. She gently folds the collar of his coat down again, smoothing it into place, and holds up the small, square receiver. "You need to hydrate. There's toxic sludge pumping through your veins. Balance it out. Where d'you want this?" A slight tremble in her voice is the only indication that she worries, for him.

"Inside left pocket." He obliges her and unscrews the lid, taking a few long swigs of water before closing the cap again.

She finishes with the recorder and shifts into doctor mode, not bothering to put her cardigan on again under her lab coat, using copious amounts of hand sanitizer before pulling on a pair of nitrile gloves. She takes out a stethoscope, thermometer, and sphygmomanometer, arranging an array of other tools with efficiency and precision before turning to him to begin the exam.

"Pity this wasn't on Friday," she murmurs. "Then you'd be in your birthday suit on your actual birthday." He still can't believe she'd pieced together his birth date in the time he'd been away. She'd threatened to withhold lab privileges when he returned unless he confirmed that she was correct, and every year since, she's shared a cake with him. He's secretly very pleased that she remembers him without making it into a big production.

"Don't make jokes, Molly," he says absently, but their lips quirk up slightly.

"I've ordered a cake." She says evenly, and he peers at her questioningly.

"We don't have to meet at the shop, not if you don't want to -" she explains hesitantly, "but I thought – you might want to eat it – with John, and Rosie, since – since they'll be open to it, now."

"Very optimistic of you, Molly."

"It's your plan."

He looks at her then, and it surprises him how much her confidence in him warms him. But he needs to _concentrate,_ now, so – "Shop it is. Might as well go all out. Not everyone gets to cheat death twice."

And her lips twitch satisfactorily, but she makes no reply as she begins his physical.

Sherlock is determined to refocus on his master plan, but the glee that he once felt at the success of his plan is waning. _An effect of the comedown,_ he thinks gruffly.

He concentrates on the predicted outcomes of confrontation with Culverton Smith. _Seven likely scenarios, the first being that he spins the accusation into some sensational news-story, laughing it off as a publicity stunt –_

Molly's hands are gentle and professional as she takes his blood pressure and temperature. She then smooths the hair from his forehead, and examines his ears, eyes, nose, and throat. He obeys her practiced commands to turn his head and open his mouth, always peripherally aware of her presence, and of her soft touch on his skin.

 _The second being that he takes the accusation seriously, and takes Sherlock and John on a 'tour' to prove how mistaken they are, all the while allowing Sherlock further access to proof -_

Molly palpates his skull and throat and makes notes on the clipboard behind her, then breaks out the stethoscope. It is cold on his chest, and he can feel her breath on his neck as she moves it around to his back. She pauses for just a moment, and he realizes, belatedly, that this is the closest she's been to his back and the scars he bears from his time away from London. He is grateful when she makes no comment, no sigh, no expression of surprise or sympathy. When she is done, she tells him to lie down. Goosebumps break out over his bare skin as she runs her hands down his arms, taking care with the bruised veins and raw injections sites in his arms. She presses lightly and clinically on his stomach, and he swallows. She skips over the sheet, for now, in favor of examining his legs and feet, and what he joked about not twenty minutes ago now feels too intimate for him to simply ignore. She cleans all of the open wounds she can see, but he won't allow her to put any salve or ointment on them. He has to maintain the façade, and drug addicts don't care much about infected injection sites.

 _The second being that Culverton takes the accusation seriously, and takes Sherlock and John on a 'tour' to prove – but – but, he's done that one, already –_

"Ready for the last bit, Sherlock."

And he stands up, allowing the sheet to drop away, and Molly looks decidedly away after placing her hands where they need to be, and he doesn't even wait for her instructions before he turns his head and coughs.

"You can get dressed, now," she says quietly, face pinched, obviously distressed at what she's discovered throughout the physical. She removes her gloves and pulls on new ones. "Just leave one shirtsleeve undone so I can take some blood samples."

He quickly complies, watching her in rapt attention as she prepares the needle and tubes. There is only a slight pinch as she draws the blood, and he frowns.

This unexpected moment of burning, brilliant humanity in the midst of his tightly scripted screenplay has thrown him off - Molly Hooper an actress turned director, calling him out without really even meaning to - causing the aspects of his high that once helped him to focus to work against him.

It needs to stop.

But it doesn't matter, now, because the ambulance has been parked for three minutes, and Molly holds out his Belstaff, not able to look him in the eye. "It's bad, Sherlock-" she begins, but he cuts her off, not able to bear focusing on why the pain he has caused her has suddenly bounced back to rest on his shoulders, and how desperately he wants to take it away. _One friend at a time_ , he thinks.

"Simple saline solution in the IV bag, if necessary then – right. Thank you for your assistance." He throws open the doors, sunlight causing the both of them to blink rapidly, and the sight of John walking up to them, glaring into the light as well, pushes his brain in the direction it needs to go.

* * *

"Well? How is he?" John asks expectantly, lips pressed into a tight line.

"Basically fine," Sherlock interjects.

"I've seen healthier bodies on my slab," Molly replies warily, a tightness springing up in her throat.

"Yes, but to be fair, you work with murder victims. They tend to be quite young."

His cavalier attitude make Molly grit her teeth. "Not funny."

"Little bit funny," he corrects.

"If you keep taking what you're taking at the rate you're taking it, you've got weeks, Sherlock. _Weeks."_ And though she doesn't want it to, her voice cracks, just a bit.

"Exactly, weeks. Let's not get ahead of ourselves." His voice is casual, and though she knows it is his way of attempting to comfort her, it has the opposite effect.

"It's not a _game_ , Sherlock!"

"Im worried about you, Molly, you look stressed." Sherlock's voice is pointed and arrogant in defense of her assessment, and it reawakens the raw ache in her chest that she'd managed to push away during her ride with him.

He has shifted, somehow – and he is a different person – a master of manipulation, once again - outside of the ambulance. The ambulance ride was both a gift and a cruel reminder of who she'll be losing if Sherlock is wrong about even the smallest detail of his plan.

Molly's lips pull back in a tight grimace. "I'm stressed, you're _dying_."

"Well, I'm ahead then. Stress can ruin your life every day. Dying can only ruin one." He flashes her a toothy smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

Molly presses her lips together, attempting to restrain her emotions. The laugh they shared earlier over Billy's mistaken, overly-careful precautions turns her stomach, now.

 _But no – it was good for the both of them. His face – it was better, afterward. Less sad. Less empty._ And so was she.

She would not regret a shared moment of happiness.

"-is it some sort of trick, then?" John says angrily, bringing her back to the present day, where a surprisingly large crowd of reporters are pressing in toward them, led by the accused serial killer himself.

Sherlock tilts his head and gives them both a smug look. "Of course it's not a trick – it's a _plan._ "

And as John and Sherlock head off with the man who may be the death of them both ( _because what happens next for John, if Sherlock dies, now?_ ) – Molly is left behind with the ambulance, blood samples to run and data to analyze to determine a course of action to best heal Sherlock's body, when this is all over.

Her eyes follow them, adrenaline rush winding down and leaving her exhausted and aching. She is about to turn back to the ambulance when Sherlock turns to look over his shoulder at her – and the look in his eyes burns through to her soul, and it both warms and chills her.

 _Be careful_ , she wills him with her eyes. _Be careful_.

And he is swallowed up by the gaping mouth of a monster of his own choosing.

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **Based on my (very) limited research, some ambulances have a cab that is open to the back, and some are mostly closed with a door or window that allows access. For the sake of my story, I'm going with the closed door/window for privacy.**

 **I have attempted to work through Molly's wardrobe change between ambulance scenes. I also realize that the dialogue from the show may not be exact, but I've no way to rewatch TLD at the moment and I'm avoiding the internet as a resource until I watch The Final Problem, tonight.**

 **Thank you so, so much for your reviews, follows, and favorites! You make me smile!**


	3. Take a Breath

**A/N: A shorter chapter, before a longer chapter, before delving into the final episode.**

* * *

 **Take a Breath**

 _"…you know, sometimes..._ _I have this terrible feeling from time to time that we might all just be human."_

 _-Sherlock, "The Lying Detective"_

* * *

Molly is preparing to face a monster of her own, after being gone so long (nearly twenty hours, between her shift at Bart's and Sherlock's grand fiasco). She feels dead on her feet, and her over-tired hands fumble with her keys, mail tucked under her arm, as she stands in the doorway – but the samples of Sherlock's bloodwork have run through, and she's got a file with the results from his medical, and after a hot shower and bite to eat, she will sleep as long as she possibly can before worry wakes her up and she decides what Sherlock will need to return to health. She has the day off tomorrow, and it is much needed, and much deserved.

She can hear Toby meowing loudly and pitifully through the door, and she sighs heavily. "Just a mo', Toby. I'm here. I know…I'm here." Molly finally manages to work the lock open – must be her exhaustion giving her difficulties – when a voice behind her startles her.

"Molly! Molly 'Ooper! I think you dropped this." Her neighbor's granddaughter, Trish, holds out an electric bill and piece of junk mail. Mr. Girard, who lives a few doors down, had a stroke a few weeks ago, and Molly had met Trish as she was moving a few things in to stay with her 'grandpapa'. She seems a nice enough woman, around Molly's age, with a thick French accent offset by careful, precise pronunciation of her words, and hazel eyes and curly brown hair. Molly hasn't had a chance to get to know her, much, but she's seen her a few times in passing, and the woman seemed very kind and friendly.

"Oh!" Molly exclaims, keeping the door cracked just a bit, to prevent Toby from coming out. He sniffs her shoe and meows all the more loudly. "Thanks, Trish. I'm so tired…must not've noticed I dropped it. The bill is important. Thank you."

"Oh, it is no problem, yes?" Trish looks down at Toby's nose peeking round the corner of the door. "Is this your cat?"

Molly smiles. "Yeah. Toby. Sorry for the noise, I've been gone a bit, and he gets tetchy without attention." Her eyes shift for moment, and she mumbles – "Like someone else I know."

Trish laughs lightly, a slightly confused look playing on her face. "And who is that?"

Molly's eyes widen, and she rushes to explain. "Oh, no – no, not you. Sorry. I meant – a friend. He's…well, I suppose I can't blame him, really. He…well, we…not that there's a we…" Molly takes a deep breath before smiling at the woman beside her, who is looking at her expectantly. "We've just lost a dear friend, a month ago. It's…a long story. And it's been a long month."

"Oh, I am so sorry for your loss," Trish says, touching her shoulder lightly and giving her a sympathetic look. "And your male friend…remember, the men deal with grief differently than women. They can be…emotionally immature, no?"

Molly snorts and nods. "Um…yeah. This one certainly can." She sighs. "But he is doing the best he can."

"Well," Trish says, giving Molly a small smile, "I must go. Grandpapa needs to work on his physical therapy, but you know how he resists it. I hope you rest. And do not work yourself so hard, yes?"

"All right," Molly nods, and stifles a yawn. "Sorry. Thank you, Trish."

"Oh, it is my pleasure," Trish waves her off as she walks away.

* * *

It is not often that Sherlock Holmes is dumbfounded, but when Faith Smith appears in the morgue doors, and she is – _not_ Faith Smith – not the woman who came to him, and gave him a note, and carried a gun in her bag, and not the woman he ate _chips_ with – he cannot seem to form an intelligible sentence.

It's not the drugs, though they certainly aren't helping.

His face falls, and so does his act - because he knows that it will not be as easy as he'd _planned_ – Faith will not simply confront her father into confessing, but – he knew, of course, that that was a long shot, a hopeful contingency, and _now_ – now is the difficult bit.

He can contemplate exactly what happened with the faux Faith Smith after he's saved John, because although the imposter is a puzzle that shocks him to his core (his mind is his most reliable, trustworthy part of him – and it has _failed_ him, startlingly so) – his primary mission is still to save John Watson. He must be admitted to this hospital.

So he 'attacks' Culverton Smith with a stolen scalpel, and, as expected, John stops him from doing so, landing several well-placed punches.

He does not have to fake it, much – going down. _Molly was right_. He _is_ dying. Slowly. And his body does not have patience for him, any longer.

Apparently, neither does John Watson.

What Sherlock did not fully anticipate is that John Watson keeps going.

It doesn't surprise him, not really.

But it _hurts_.

He supposes he deserves it.

"He's entitled," he spits, tired, as hospital personnel pull John off of him. "Let him do what he wants. I killed his wife."

John looks at him, face hard. "Yes. He did."

And that is the final blow - the one that hurts the most.

* * *

Molly flicks on the telly after dropping the contents of her arms on the countertop, but it is all speculation on Culverton Smith and Sherlock Holmes, and she turns it off just as quickly, not caring to waste precious time flicking through channels just to find something mind-numbing anyway. Instead, she places her iPod in its speaker before setting about making herself some tea and treating herself to some biscuits.

She breathes in the steam from her tea, closing her eyes and slouching into the chair at her table. She flips through her mail, sorting it into 'pay/respond', 'file', 'shred', and 'recycle' piles. It is good to have something easy to do while she decompresses.

She leaves everything on the table and places her cup in the sink shortly after finishing her snack, and heads toward the bathroom. Steam quickly fills the room, and she spends an excessive amount of time just standing there under the showerhead. She focuses on the sound of the water hitting the tiles and tub, and on the feeling of it coursing down her hair and back, and the taste of it as she licks her lips. She urges her mind to _let go_.

 _You've done what you can._

 _It's up to Sherlock, now._

 _And John._

 _And Culverton Smith._

 _And…no._

 _Let it go._

There is something to be said for the strength it takes to wait on the sidelines, behind the scenes. It is different than the kind required in the thick of the action, but it is more patient, and requires a lot more self-control.

If there are a few tears mixed into the water coursing down the drain, it is nothing new for Molly Hooper.

* * *

Sherlock wakes, and it takes a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the subdued fluorescent lights of his hospital bed. It also takes a few moments for his thoughts to catch up to the pain radiating throughout his body.

He gingerly takes inventory of his injuries –punctures and lesions from injections and general lack of hygiene, these past few weeks, which have been cleaned and treated by the nurses, here. Muscles spasming and cramping as he goes through withdrawal – but he checks his IV drip, and finds, indeed, that his connection has come through, and it is nothing more than a saline solution. Explains the intensity of the pain. He licks his lip, and is not surprised to taste dried blood. He blinks and winces, noting tender, irritated inflammation of his eye, and hisses as he takes a deeper breath. John's given him a black eye and bruised his nose and his ribs, for sure, but thankfully – _just_ bruised.

He flexes his hands and notes with distaste that they are still trembling, and - and so is his lip. Sherlock shakes his head slightly to try and clear away the last memory he has burned into his brain, but the action only makes him feel dizzy.

 _Yes. He did._

 _Not Faith. Faith Not Faith. A note. Suicidal. Malfunction._

Something cold and overwhelming rises up from his stomach, and he turns his head to the side, squeezing his eyes shut.

But then he opens them, and sees that John has brought him his old cane. A ghost of a smile plays on his lips, and he thinks that all hope – _all_ hope is not lost.

* * *

Molly lays awake, sun-darkening shades drawn, staring at the ceiling above her.

She can't sleep.

She is _exhausted,_ but she can't sleep.

She turns fitfully and stares at her closet.

She shouldn't. She hasn't, since before Tom.

In fact, she's only done it twice, and it was only during the period of time after Sherlock 'died', and before she met Tom.

She waits a moment, before flinging her comforter off and stalking over to the closet. She flings it open, and digs around far back and to the left, before her hand closes around what she is looking for.

She pulls out Sherlock's robe, an old navy one that he'd left here, for use during his bolt-hole stays – though he hasn't visited in at least three months - and bunches it in a pile against her chest.

Molly hauls it back to her bed, the tie trailing on the ground behind her, and climbs back in. She pulls it close to her chest and breathes in the fabric. She's washed it a few times, but it still smells like Sherlock.

As her eyes grow drowsier, she forgives herself, this moment of weakness.

It's his fault she can't sleep, after all.

* * *

When Culverton comes in, Sherlock is ready. He is ready to converse Culverton into a corner, and the man is free and careless with his confessions, now that he believes himself to be across the finish line.

But he's more of a monster than Sherlock ever imagined.

When Smith orders him to say the words the first time, he says it flippantly, bored – the words are part of his act, words eaten up and swallowed down in the recorder that Culverton missed, right there in John's cane, leaning up against the empty visitor's chair.

 _I don't want to die._

When he's made to say it a second time, he's forced to think about it.

 _I don't want to die._

He is prepared to die, for John – prepared to die to make amends for breaking his vow, because it _should have been him dead in the first place,_ and it is a price he is willing to pay, but – _he doesn't want to_.

He is _willing_ , but he _doesn't want to._

By the third time, the automatic responses of his nervous system have flooded his body - already pushed to its limits – _I'm stressed, you're dying, Sherlock -_ with stress hormones that make his voice crack and his eyes prick with tears.

He trembles, and he _doesn't want to die._

He thinks of John, and Rosie, and Mrs. Hudson. John may come to his funeral, if he's lucky, (if he's unlucky, or wrong, and John is not already on his way to catch Smith in the act – and it's a small seed, but he doubts himself, now, after being wrong about Faith) – but then what, what next - for the best friend he'd ever had, in this world? And it is a sharp jolt to his chest, as he realizes that Rosie will never even know he existed, unless Mrs. Hudson or Molly -

An image of Molly, waiting in a cake shop – _hair swept back, checking her phone expectantly, colorful candles stuck in the cake to annoy him -_ waiting to celebrate his birthday, with him, with him and John and Rosie – and Molly, _face drawn and sad, picking apart an impartial cane alone to convict a dangerous killer_ \- causes his limbs to jerk involuntarily.

 _He doesn't want to die._

So he's not going to.

* * *

Molly wakes with a start, and looks around the room, half expecting someone to be there with her.

It takes a moment for her heart to calm down, and she breathes deeply, listening intently as she focuses on the ceiling. She props herself up on her elbow and checks the time on her phone – _10:37 p.m._

She sighs, and flops back into her pillows, rubbing the sleep from her face. Despite it all, she'd gotten a fairly decent nap in.

Molly lays there for a few moments, debating whether or not to try and fall back asleep, but decides against it when Toby comes padding into the room and jumps onto the bed. She rolls onto her side as he sits beside her, and strokes his fur lovingly.

After a few moments, she decides she feels refreshed enough to try sifting through the data that is Sherlock's medical exam and come up with a plan that, if he _actually_ follows, should allow him to go back close to where he was, physically.

She opts against tea or coffee for something crisp and more refreshing, and pours herself a glass of juice. She notices Toby's empty bowl and refills it before settling down at the table. She shoves all of her sorted mail from earlier to the side, and carefully lays out her notes from the ambulance and the results from Sherlock's blood work.

An hour later, she's got a list –clonidine to help with the physical symptoms of withdrawal (she will have to ask Mycroft for this, but is confident he will provide it – or rather, confident she can get him to provide it), vitamins to replenish what he's lost the past few weeks, groceries – she does not bother with anti-depressants, knowing he will not take them - and the rest, she does not add to the list, because they are not tangible items, and to add 'to-do's to a list for Sherlock is the surest way to guarantee he will not do them.

Exercise.

Maintenance of regular hygiene.

A sense of purpose.

Friends.

A support system.

She sighs, rubbing her eyes, tired from the strain. While her nap was refreshing, she has a lot of catching up to do, sleep-wise – and a nap every day for the next week sounds like a good plan, to her.

She stretches, about to watch some mindless television to relax before heading back to bed, when the screen of her phone lights up beside her.

There are several texts in rapid succession, and she smiles.

 **I hope you ordered a cake big enough for four. –SH**

 **Or three. Does Rosamund eat cake yet? -SH**

 **No matter. I can eat her piece. -SH**

 **Success, on both accounts. –SH**

 **Thank you. –SH**

* * *

Settled comfortably into the _passenger_ seat of Mrs. Hudson's Aston Martin, this time – a satisfied smile tugs at the corners of Sherlock's mouth as Molly's reply flashes onto the screen, the glow illuminating his face.

 **You are welcome. Don't ever ask me to do that again. –xMH**

 **Congratulations. -xMH**

* * *

 **A/N: As always, thank you, thank you for your favorites, follows, and reviews. It makes me so happy to see little notifications in my inbox. Like, Mycroft eating cake happy. Like, Mrs. Hudson's car happy. Like, Sherlock's hair-ruffle-kiss to Molly happy. (Okay…maybe not quite that happy.) Still, you get the idea. Thank you, again!**


	4. Let Me Find My Rest in You

**A/N: This is the cake/Molly 'babysitting' Sherlock scene. I needed some (relative) fluffiness before delving into the beautiful mess that is The Final Problem.**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or any of its characters. Sherlolly would totes be no-holds-barred canon if I did.**

* * *

 **Let Me Find My Rest In You**

 _"Is that sentiment talking?"_

 _"No, it's me."_

 _"Difficult to tell the difference, these days."_

 _-Mycroft and Sherlock, "The Six Thatchers"_

* * *

When two of your best friends are a junkie consulting detective and a retired army doctor, choosing a table at a cake shop requires more forethought than you'd think.

For John, the table should be against a wall – or – preferably, in a corner. He likes to have his back to a wall. Less chance for surprises that way. Sherlock sneaking up on John and Mary in the midst of his proposal in the center of a busy restaurant didn't help that at all. He also likes a view of the entrance, to keep an eye on who's coming and going. That rules out the tables immediately next to the entrance, because Sherlock also likes a view of the entrance.

Sherlock, of course, is more complicated. He prefers tables over booths, and likes to have a view not only of the entrance, but of the kitchen door as well. He likes being able to see the cashier, without being so close that people waiting in line to pay irritate him with their 'banal conversations'. Being close enough to either the entrance or kitchen door are a bonus, in case a quick getaway is needed – but he is willing to compromise on that item on the checklist, if he is not actually on a case. Since he's just caught a serial killer, she thinks that she's safe to ignore that condition for the time being.

She does not always cater to this (somewhat) ridiculous list of demands, of course – but today _is_ Sherlock's birthday, and so, today – she chooses a table that she knows will please everyone. It is a table in the corner of the shop, under a window and three tables away from the kitchen door. Both Sherlock and John should have a nice view of the front door, and should Sherlock sit with his back to the window, he will also be able to see the cashier. It is a bonus for _her_ that it is in the _back_ corner of the shop, so that there is as little outside attention on them as possible. She likes her privacy as much as Sherlock, sometimes.

John's texted her that Sherlock was coming with him to pick up Rosie, and that they'd meet at the shop, so there was no need to go to Baker Street before hand. She's already picked up the ordered cake – yellow with a chocolate buttercream frosting – and the plates and silverware, laying them out neatly at the table. Molly is wiping off a high chair for Rosie (she can sit up, now, and though she won't be eating loads of cake anytime soon, Molly knows she'll enjoy playing with a spoon as they eat) when her friends enter.

The monster, Molly thinks, has chewed Sherlock up and spit him out.

Although she knows he was dismissed from the hospital earlier this morning, he has not shaved or showered – he has merely changed clothes, and the stubble on his cheeks is more than a five o'clock shadow, now.

And oh, his _face._

She really didn't think Culverton would result to _beating_ Sherlock to death to kill him, but perhaps – perhaps he went too far, before John showed up, and Sherlock fought back? He has a black eye, and as he approaches, the white of his eye is blood-red from the trauma. The shadowy purple-grey of a bruise also blooms across his nose. He walks carefully, tenderly – and she knows that there are injuries she cannot see.

Her face must have fallen, because he gives her an insincere grin – the kind he displays for a second or two, before his face falls back into neutral boredom.

"I'd have thought congratulations were in order."

John steps out from behind him and stands beside them, taking Rosie out of her carrier, and Molly helps him work her chubby little legs through the openings in the high chair. "Congratulations?" John asks.

"Yep. Not every day you catch a serial killer on your birthday. Next year's present will be a bit boring, comparatively, I think." Sherlock looks quite content as he takes the seat beneath the window, and winces only slightly. Most people wouldn't notice at all.

Then again, Molly isn't _most_ _people_.

"I should hope so," John responds, buckling Rosie in and taking the seat against the back wall. Molly hangs her jacket on the last chair, across from John, with Rosie on her left and Sherlock on her right.

All worries about Sherlock's injuries are filed away for further inquiry at a later time. Molly beams between the two men at the table, heart filling with relief that they are _finally_ speaking again. "Congratulations, Sherlock." _Again._ She gives him a quick look out of the corner of her eye, and he returns it with a small smile of his own. She means it as more than just a 'congratulations' for solving the case – it is a congratulations on salvaging his friendship – and he knows it.

"Thank you, Molly." His smile falls away and - wasting no time, he lifts the cake knife to cut into his birthday cake.

"Sherlock!" She protests, frowning in reproach. "You need to at _least_ blow out your candles first."

He raises an eyebrow and uses the knife to gesture toward the cake. "There _aren't_ any candles, Molly. Besides, it's an -"

"-antiquated tradition, pointless, waste of matches and breath, we know." Molly interrupts him, and John chuckles. "But I think Rosie would like it."

Sherlock narrows his eyes at her, but they are light with mirth and good humor. "And what makes you think Rosie would be entertained by watching a wick flare into flame, most likely resulting in dripping colorful wax onto perfectly good icing after I exhale all over the baked good we are supposed to share?"

John snorts, and Molly shakes her head, smiling. "Because it's colorful, and bright, you'll make a funny face when you blow out the candles, and she _likes_ it when you make faces at her."

"I do _not_ make a funny face when I blow out candles." He looks offended, but everyone at the table can tell he is faking it.

"'Course you do," Molly says. "Everyone does."

"Mmm, yeah. Don't think your cheekbones and popped collar can help you out, there," John teases, tilting his head for emphasis - and Molly's smile widens, because it's the first time she's seen him smile since Mary died. It's a small thing – a ghost of expressions past – but it's _there_ , and that's what matters.

Rosie lets out a gurgled, joyful expression, and John and Molly chuckle.

Sherlock makes eye contact with the little girl across from him, and smirks. "Well, we'll just have to prove them wrong, won't we, Rosamund?"

"Oh!" Molly exclaims, and begins digging through the oversized messenger bag beside her. It has everything she needs for the 'party', as well as some pajamas and toiletries for staying at Sherlock's tonight. She pulls out a cigarette lighter, and candles – three thick blue ones, and keeps going. "I've got something for Rosie, too. Something festive."

John smiles expectantly, and raises his eyebrows when Molly pulls out a pink headband with large yellow and white flowers on it. _Happy Birthday_ is written in flowing white script across the fabric of the band.

Sherlock snorts. "That's _awful_ , Molly."

She wrinkles her nose at him. "Well, it's not for _you_ , is it? Let's just see what _Rosie_ thinks, mmm?" Her voice changes as she turns to address the baby beside her, rising in pitch and playfulness.

She holds out the headband toward the baby, and Rosie reaches for the flowers, fingers grasping the soft fabric, brushing experimentally over the silk petals – and she bangs it into the table excitedly, squealing happily.

"See, she likes it!" Molly exclaims. "Do you want to try it on, sweet girl? Let's try it on!"

Sherlock raises his eyebrows at John, who shrugs minutely. They both suppress dubious smiles.

"Is that okay with Daddy?" Molly looks to John, who quickly widens his smile convincingly.

He clears his throat. "Mmm. Yeah. Of course."

Surprisingly, Rosie accepts the added appendage with little protest, and Molly, quite pleased, places the candles in the cake and lights them.

Sherlock takes a deep breath, preparing to blow them out, when Molly turns to Rosie.

"See the candles, Rosie? Aren't they pretty? Not as pretty as you, but still – very pretty, mmm?" She takes Rosie's hands, and flashes what could only be described as a devious smile over her shoulder at Sherlock. "And now we sing Happy Birthday."

"No." Sherlock frowns, narrowing his eyes at the woman beside him.

"It's for Rosie, Sherlock," she says eyes wide and mockingly innocent.

"It's not _her_ birthday," he protests.

"But you know she'll like it-"

"Absolutely not," he responds, taking another breath – the wax is starting to melt, and one candle already has quite a large drip sliding down the side of it, and he'd rather not pick wax off of _his_ cake –

-but Molly starts anyway. " _Happy Birthday to you,"_ she sings softly – clapping Rosie's hands together as she goes – and Rosie laughs, and the tension around Sherlock's eyes relaxes –

" _Happy Birthday to you-"_ Molly raises an eyebrow at John and gestures toward Sherlock with a tilt of her head. He blinks once, then clears his throat and joins in for the rest of the song –

 _"Happy Birthday dear Sherlock, Happy Birthday to you!"_

Rosie cackles and buries her head in her hands, before gumming them happily and drooling all over herself.

" _Finally_ ," grumbles Sherlock, rolling his eyes and muttering something about archaic rituals, his ears turning pink - but Molly did sing _very_ softly, and the only patron who noticed was a kitchen helper who was heading back through the doors, a smile and nod his only acknowledgment of the event - and a smirk plays on Sherlock's lips. When he blows out the candles, he hears the familiar _snap_ of John's phone as the doctor takes a picture.

He winces as Rosie shrieks before blowing raspberries of her own, spit bubbles burbling forth and rolling down her chin, before being caught on her bib.

"She's teething," John explains, noticing Sherlock's grimace.

"Let's hope they come in fast," he mutters, then brightens. "Although, strictly speaking, saliva samples _could-_ "

"No." John and Molly answer simultaneously, faces briefly serious before breaking into affectionate grins.

Sherlock smiles to himself. "Worth a shot," he responds, mostly to himself, before addressing the infant across from him. "I do apologize for your father and godmother, Rosie. Their interest in the advancement of the science of saliva is appallingly low."

"Well, Mr. Science, let's see if the evidence from John's photo disproves your previous hypothesis that you don't 'make funny faces' when blowing out your candles." Molly teases.

John quickly keys in his password and opens the photo gallery, and he gives Sherlock a look as he stares at the picture. "Well, I'll be damned," he groans, and hands the phone to Molly.

She raises her eyebrows. His lips are barely pursed – it looks more like he's been caught talking than blowing out candles – and his face is focused and content, eyes wide – even his black, bloodshot eye looks halfway acceptable. It's actually quite a nice picture. She sighs. "You're the only person I know, Sherlock, that still looks like a Greek god while blowing out birthday candles."

John raises his eyebrows at that, and Sherlock looks very pleased.

Molly blushes, and immediately backtracks. "Not – I mean – your cheeks – John said – um…I meant – the statues" she gestures vaguely to her face, as though trying to make a point.

John laughs softly, and puts her out of her misery. "He does, though, doesn't he? Looks like he was carved from stone, most of the time - though all the Greek statues I've ever seen didn't have weeks worth of stubble. Going for a new look, Sherlock?"

"Just didn't want to risk being late to the party," he quips back, and pulls the candles out of the cake. As he takes care of the candles, Molly cuts them each a piece of cake, and the three friends fill their hearts with each-others company as they fill their bellies with cake.

* * *

"I'm in _recovery_. I shouldn't be forced to endure _this._ " It shouldn't be possible for a voice as deep as Sherlock's to sound _whiny_ , but…it sort of does.

Molly grimaces apologetically to the cashier as they pay. "Exactly. You're in recovery. You need something besides leftover birthday cake to eat. I didn't drag you to _Tesco's_ , for goodness' sake. We're at the shop located _conveniently_ beneath your flat. _Speedy's_ is even right there in its name _._ "

Sherlock sniffs. "Yes. Well. Perhaps you should've left me with Mrs. Hudson while _you_ went to Tesco's. Their selection of… _everything_ is better than anything here. And the service as anything but _Speedy._ "

Molly turns halfway to him, tilting her head and giving him a _look_ , eyebrows raised in warning. The cashier piles a quart of milk, juice, bread, a quart of soup, a variety of sandwiches, and a handful of various apples, pears, and oranges into bags, and glowers at Sherlock as he does so.

"Sorry." Sherlock mumbles insincerely, clasping his hands behind his back and looking away.

He was very generous with his good humor, earlier – during his birthday celebration. But he has apparently reached his limits of _people_ today, and Molly sighs. It may very well be a long night.

* * *

They head upstairs, Sherlock carrying a bag with the box of leftover cake and another that contains the milk and juice, while Molly carries the rest. They both dump the contents on the kitchen table, and Molly looks around, visibly impressed.

Before she has a chance to comment, Sherlock sighs. "Mycroft's people did an _excellent_ job cleaning up, as you can see. Mrs. Hudson was _so_ very grateful." He, however, is obviously not.

"I'm sure she was," Molly murmurs as she begins unloading the groceries. Sherlock sits at the table beside her, stretching out his long legs and crossing his arms over his chest. Molly opens the refrigerator door and raises her eyebrows.

Sherlock frowns. "I know," he laments. "Cleanest it's ever been. They didn't even leave the mildew spores in the butter dish."

"I suppose that's a consequence of turning your kitchen into a drugs lab. Lose your mildew spores, as well."

"Their loss is keenly felt."

Molly smiles to herself. "Hungry, or not yet?"

"Stuffed. No appetite for _that_ , anyway." Sherlock wrinkles his nose as she puts the quart of vegetable soup in the fridge.

Molly sighs. "You need to start replenishing the vitamins you've lost, Sherlock. Best way to do that is through food, not supplements. But here-" she digs through her oversized bag, pulling out the assortment of vitamins she's brought for him. "If you're not hungry, take these for now. And-" she pulls out a bottle and twists the cap off, laying a single tablet on the table before him, before twisting the cap back on and tucking it bag into her bag. "Clonidine. To help with withdrawal."

Sherlock's eyebrows raise, just a bit, as he stares at the pill before him. "Generous forethought, but unnecessary. No benzos?"

Molly narrows her eyes at him. "You know those are addicting, themselves."

He smirks. "Just checking, doctor."

He looks up to find her staring intently at him, and his petulant expression softens. "It was for _John_. More than motivated to be clean again, now."

"I know," she replies softly. "Just checking."

Molly finishes putting the groceries away, folding up the bags and tucking them into the cupboard beneath the sink, and then turns to Sherlock, who is still staring, tight-lipped, at the pill.

"It was just an offer, Sherlock," she says. "You don't have to take it if you don't want to."

He looks up at her, and it is like he's been broken from a deep reverie. He smiles charmingly. "Quite right." He sighs, pops the vitamins in his mouth and swallows, and runs a hand through his hair. "Think I'll take a bath, now."

"All right," Molly says, and walks briskly to the bathroom.

Sherlock narrows his eyes at her as he stands. "Molly-"

"Just poking around," Molly calls cheerfully, voice echoing from the tiled bathroom. "You know. Make sure Mycroft's people didn't overlook anything."

"Molly-" he tries again, and his voice is tired and warning.

"Just _checking_!" She replies, and Sherlock walks slowly down the hallway.

"I mean it, Molly Hooper." He leans against the doorframe, watching her feel around the cabinets and up the sink and tub faucets. He smirks when she lifts up the lid to the fresh water tank of the toilet, impressed – but his voice is gruff as he continues. "I _want_ to be clean, again. Do you think John would let me round Rosie if I wasn't?"

When she is finished with the toilet, she washes her hands, and smiles gently at him. "I know. Which is why I'm checking - for _you_. I don't want you to be tempted."

Sherlock snorts. His eyes follow her as she takes a towel out of the linen closet and sets it on the vanity before running the taps, allowing the water to run over her hands until it is at a satisfactory temperature. "I am not an invalid. Still capable of running myself a bath."

"Are you capable of getting in yourself?" Her hand is still immersed in the water from the tap, and she darts a scrutinizing gaze at him from beneath her lashes before turning again to stare at the water filling the tub. Her voice is an octave lower than usual, and she chews on her lower lip – not wanting to confront him about the extent of his injuries, but obviously still aware of, and concerned about, them.

It is most likely the sound of the water, and her voice – soothing, and the way his body is beginning to relax after a month of adrenaline, drugs, and stress – _because it's certainly not the way she looks at him, or the way she looks -_ Sherlock feels heat, rushing - up and down his torso, pricking at the back of his neck and the tips of his ears. It leaves him with goosebumps, and he frowns at that strange juxtaposition.

He blinks, and berates himself for consenting to her taking the 'night shift'. He could fend off her enquiries and her careful, gentle, _bloody unyielding_ concern during the day – but it is nearing the evening, now, and his body is crying for rest so desperately that he will have to give in sooner or later. It is both comforting and off-putting that she knows just exactly how to offer assistance in the least – annoying manner possible, but he does not want her questioning his injuries. He knows she suspects something – but he _just_ went through the ordeal of saving John, and he does not have the fortitude to defend him tonight.

Instead, he'll feign defending himself.

"Yes, quite capable. In case you've forgotten, John is also a qualified doctor, and deemed me well enough to venture out for birthday cake, so I should say I'm well enough to lower myself into a bath."

Molly peers at him suspiciously. "All right, then," she says after a moment. "I'll be in the hall if you need anything."

Sherlock rolls his eyes as he begins unbuttoning his shirt. "Completely unne-"

" _Dammit,_ Sherlock, can you _stop_ for just _one second?!_ " Molly snaps as she clutches the towel she's dried her hands on in her fists. Sherlock pauses, frowning at her in surprise, and Molly closes her eyes for a moment, leaning on the counter for support.

"Sorry," she says after a moment of tense silence. "It's just – I'm a bit" – she swallows, and he can see her throat move – "a bit – tired, too-"

 _Of course she is – less than seven hours' sleep in the past forty-eight hours, judging from the sallowness of her skin and the poorly concealed shadows beneath her eyes - and she probably will not sleep more than that, here tonight –_

Sherlock swallows, guilt pushing its way back into his chest. And here he thought he was done with that, finally.

"-and I – I'm glad it's all over-" she wrings her hands, catching his gaze in the bathroom mirror before picking at the towel before her, then repeatedly smoothing it out.

 _She has lost over half a stone, and he can very clearly see the way her clavicle extends, peeking out from her jumper, which has slipped to one side on her shoulder, and her trousers lie flatter, now, on her backside –_

"But at the same time, it's _not_ really over, is it?"

 _Her shoulders slouch, though not from uncertainty – she has made peace with everything that has happened – she is just, as she plainly said, fatigued. She is in need of rest – and not just sleep, but rest – time that does not include waiting on him to live or die, time that includes grieving for the friend she lost, in Mary – because she's done – not enough of that,_ Sherlock realizes.

"And I'm sorry that I'm…sort of…mothering you. I didn't mean to. Forget it."

 _She is trying very hard not to be sad in front of him._

He closes his eyes, because he suddenly feels…sad, now, too. But it is strange, because it is not…bitter, or overwhelming, or lonely. It is just…there. The euphoria of cheating death and celebrating his birthday as a sort of slap in the face to the killer who wanted him dead twenty-four hours ago has seeped away, eaten up by a nervous system greedy for relief from constant agitation.

The agitation is gone, now, too.

 _Why does he feel sad, just because she does?_

Her emotions should have…little effect on him.

But they do. They matter. She matters.

And because it worked so well, earlier, on John – he steps up beside her, and touches her shoulder so that she turns toward him. She looks up and gives him a brave smile, and almost of their own accord – _funny how it gets less difficult as he goes –_ his arms wrap around her, pulling her slowly to his chest. She stands there for a moment, pressed against him, the side of her face resting on his shirt – he can feel her forehead wrinkle in surprise as she realizes what he's doing.

Something that might be a smile ghosts on his face as she wraps her arms very softly around his torso, and she takes a deep shuddering breath in. And then, because it feels – right – _he has no logical basis for this, it is just his Transport doing what – Transports do, apparently –_ he rests his cheek on the top of her head, and closes his eyes.

 _Interesting._

He can feel the tension in his muscles drain, almost in sync with Molly's, and he marvels, again – at how comforting someone he _cares_ about – someone who _matters_ – seems to be beneficial to himself, as well.

"It's all right," he mumbles, after a moment. "I'm sorry. I'd blame my behavior on the withdrawal, but I don't think that would earn me any points in my favor."

He feels her smile against his chest, and her arms fall away. He releases her and takes a step back, and her smile is less brave and more…grateful, now.

"That was – nice. Kind, I mean. I…needed it. Thank you, Sherlock." She steps around him to leave. "I'll just – grab you some clothes, and set them inside the door, then?"

He knows she is going to poke around his room, just to 'check', but he doesn't argue. He can be gracious to her. He supposes she deserves it, and really – surprisingly – he doesn't mind as much as he thought he might - Molly poking around his room. He's been in hers often enough, it doesn't seem all that wrong for her to be in his.

"Thank you." He responds absent-mindedly in the affirmative, and sets about undressing for his bath.

* * *

Sherlock lets the water run until the bath is almost overflowing, but the sound of it is almost as calming as the feel of it. The heat of the water stings at first, but quickly numbs and then warms his abrasions and cramping muscles.

It feels good to wash. He's impeccably clean, except when he's high, and washing off the grime from the past three and a half weeks parallels the fresh start he's making in life, as well. He allows himself to soak until the water is no longer turning his skin red from the heat, breathing in the steam as though he can clean out his lungs as well as the rest of his body. At some point, Molly cracks the door open and slides some clothes in before closing it again. He's not sure if she stays in the hallway or moves to the living room, but he really doesn't care.

He saves his hair for last and slides down under the water to rinse it out. His hands tug at the tangled curls, enjoying the few seconds of immersion in the water – cocooned in warmth and muffled silence. Satisfied that his hair is fully rinsed, he braces his feet against the end of the tub and grasps the sides to pull himself up, but his back and bruised ribs choose that exact moment to spasm and clench, and he is nearly paralyzed with pain.

Logically, he _knows_ it will subside in seconds, and that he will renew his grip on the bath and sit up with no trouble – he is in _no_ danger - his _mind_ does not panic, but his body does. He exhales sharply at the pain, air leaving his lips and nostrils in a stream of bubbles, and it is as though the water that was so welcoming and comforting moments before is now Culverton Smith, keeping him from breathing, and his limbs thrash unnervingly in instinctive protest.

 _One second,_

 _two seconds,_

 _three seconds -_

Molly must have been sitting in the hall, because she is in the room in seconds. She takes one look at Sherlock in the bath, and in one fluid motion – jerks the stop up so the water will drain and plunges her arms into the water, pulling him up so that his back rests against the side of the bath.

He coughs, and it takes him several minutes to regain his breath – not because he'd inhaled any water, but because his ribs are making it difficult to draw in a full breath.

He blinks, and realizes that the water level is now at his waist, and Molly's palms are pressed against the back of the tub, her forearms just below his armpits. The arms of her jumper are soaked, and the fabric feels both soggy and prickly against his bare skin. He blinks again, and realizes that the water wicked up her jumper to past her elbows. It is dripping, irritatingly so.

His eyes travel further upward, and - his thoughts disjointed – his breath catches in his chest when he sees her face.

She cannot seem to look him in the eye. She is staring at his left shoulder, eyes rimmed red and blinking rapidly to dispel unshed tears, jaw clenching and unclenching in an effort to keep her lips from wobbling.

He clears his throat, uncomfortable with the sudden onset of emotion, both from Molly and from himself. The drain makes a sucking sound as the last of the water drains from the bath, and the tension melts just enough for them to move, slowly, again.

" I think-" his voice is too broken for his liking, so he takes a breath – steady, this time – and tries again. "I think I'll take that clonidine, now."

Molly lets out a shaky breath that is not really a laugh – it is more like sound coinciding with an exhale – and turns, so that she moves from her knees to her bottom, pulling her wet arms from around Sherlock and out of the tub, one hand still gripping the edge of it. She rests her forehead on her hand, seemingly oblivious to the water from her jumper dripping around her. Her breath is ragged and exaggerated, as if she is trying very hard not to burst into tears.

 _While it was – unsuspected, and he can understand – frightening, for her – her reaction is more than he would have predicted._

She lifts her head suddenly, blinks briskly, nods to herself. "Right. I'll get that. Now." She stands abruptly and walks stiffly out the door, leaving it open.

He frowns, his mind whirring, on the edge of discovery.

 _Molly's reaction – physical aggression, anger, betrayal - when he appeared to be using, for the Magnusson case – very uncharacteristic, though understandably within the realm of normal human reaction to a close friend perceivably being under the influence._

 _She'd never found out about the one-time overdose on the plane - but Molly's reaction when he_ _ **was**_ _using again, for John – again, anger, betrayal, deep hurt – willingness to walk away and leave, until she'd understood the reasoning behind it, though she hadn't agreed with it – was stronger than he'd predicted. He'd been able to work around it – through it? – but still, for her - there was more emotion tied to his drug use than he'd first anticipated._

 _Her knowledge of what he needed, in terms of aiding his recovery – there was a hint of something more there, than her pure medical knowledge – it was more like –_ _ **experience**_ _?_

Sherlock stands, muscles spasms over for the time being. The pain in his ribs is now dull and throbbing instead of sharp and twisting, and he groans as he hoists himself up. He steps gingerly over the side of the bath and grabs the towel, drying himself off half-heartedly before wrapping the towel around his waist and sitting carefully on the closed toilet.

He quickly scrolls through his knowledge of Molly and her history – _mother died in a car accident when she was twelve, father of cancer when she was twenty-seven, no living grandparents, has one living – aunt, or uncle? - in Lancaster, exchanges Christmas and birthday cards, phones twice a year – aunt, then, or their wouldn't be the cards - and has…an older sister, married – lives in Edinburgh - one child, relationship strained but not entirely estranged, spends every other holiday with them, but no more than three per year – older sister tried to become a mother figure to Molly after their mother died, and Molly resented her for it, though she tries not to, now – finally – a younger brother, less of an age gap, they were closer – but fully estranged, now – it was his choice, as Molly still displays photographs of the two of them on her bookshelf –_

Sherlock frowns. _That must be it, then_. Molly's experience with drug addicts – comes from her younger brother. Could have been a close friend in school, but unlikely, given that it would have only affected her to this degree if they'd died. Given her proclivity for visiting her parent's gravestones at least twice a year, he'd have noticed if she also visited a third. So not dead, but for all intents and purposes dead to her – _younger brother, then, and he has not made contact in_ – Sherlock closes his eyes, brows drawn together, picturing the photographs on her shelf and straining to remember any hint of a call, change in her demeanor, or communication that would have been from her brother – _no contact in the past four years._

 _How had he missed this?_

"Here," Molly says softly, and he looks up at her. She's taken off her wet jumper and wrung out the wet sleeves of her blouse, pushing them up past her elbows. She holds out the pill and a glass of juice, and he quickly obliges her, not removing the glass from his lips until he's finished the whole thing.

He hands it back to her, and she turns to walk away. "I'm sorry," he blurts out, messily – _he hates how messy he is, with these things_ – because he hadn't realized the depth of the hurt he had caused her, by pulling her into his drug use, reminding her of a relationship that was ruined by it. In saving one friend, he has strung out the other.

 _And yet, she stays._

He marvels at her, and is intimidated by her, because he still doesn't fully understand her. He seems to be spending that precious currency Mary bought him very poorly.

Molly pauses in the door frame, and shrugs with one shoulder. "It's fine. I'm fine. It just – scared me-"

"No," he corrects softly, in that gentle voice he reserves only for her. "I'm sorry about your brother. I – didn't realize. Until – now."

She turns sharply and looks him over, searching him through. _He was right, then._ She seems satisfied that he is not trying to hurt her, not trying to gloat over some distant fact he managed to dredge up to explain her emotions – _he will always, always be grateful for her insight into his intentions -_ and she swallows, head nodding minutely.

"I-" and it is not a promise, but it will have to do, because it is all he can give her – "I shall really, _truly_ endeavor never to have to ask you to do this again."

She smiles to herself, and it is painful. "I'd rather you ask than die, since rehab doesn't seem to be an option for you. But – thank you."

* * *

Molly changes into her pajamas shortly after Sherlock finishes dressing and shaving, and they eat quietly. Sherlock swallows as much vegetable soup as he can stomach. Molly seems lost in herself, but it is fine with Sherlock, as he has much to think about, as well.

Molly drifts to John's chair and takes out a book she'd brought, and Sherlock opens his laptop to sift through the nearly hundred emails he's received in the past three weeks, while he was focused on the much larger, more difficult case of Culverton Smith. It distracts him enough to prevent him from focusing on the withdrawal symptoms, though they still force their way to the forefront of his attention more often than he'd like. Luckily – exhaustion means that his body will force him to sleep through some of the worst of the symptoms, made less so by Molly's forethought and experience. He does not often feel shame, but he has felt it today – and though his body craves a high, it turns his stomach to think of submitting to the urge. He has never hated his addiction as much as he does tonight.

He and Molly talk periodically about the cases he finds interesting enough to devote breath to, but there comes a time when he asks her a question about the likelihood of a feline's urine masking the scent of an airborne poison, and she does not answer.

He looks up and Molly is sleeping awkwardly in John's chair, neck crooked and book splayed across her lap. He rubs his own tired eyes, and contemplates leaving her and stumbling into his own bed. But he knows that tonight – he will sleep just as well on the couch, and if she were to wake, later – and he were not visible – she would be distressed. He's caused her enough of that, lately.

So he retrieves two pillows from his bed, and props one carefully under Molly's head. Her head lolls to one side and he tries to move it into a more comfortable looking position, but she keeps rolling it back, and he gives up after a moment. He marks her place in her book and sets it on the floor beside her chair, and pulls a throw over her.

Satisfied that he has done his good deed for her for the night, he lowers himself into the couch, turns onto his side, and is promptly hit with a wave of nausea and cramps, again. He groans, and flops to his other side. He attempts to focus on any number of distracting things, but nothing seems to help. He is _exhausted_ , but he _cannot_ sleep.

After running through an inventory of new supplies he will need to ask Molly for to restock his fridge and makeshift chemistry lab, he reaches for his phone. He scrolls through twitter and news feeds, bored with the current unoriginality of criminals.

Finally, he opens his text messages. There, at the top – the latest message from The Woman.

 **Birthday Dinner? I'm on the Continent until next Tuesday.**

He blinks, eyes straining from looking at screens in the dim light. His fingers hover over the message, contemplating a reply, thinking over John's words from earlier in the day – _a romantic relationship – will complete you as a human being – who you thought I was – is the man I want to be –_

And his eyes catch the message line just below Irene's – and his lips twitch at the corners. It is Molly's, and he clicks on their latest exchange, instead.

 **Success, on both accounts. –SH**

 **Thank you. –SH**

 ** _You are welcome. Don't ever ask me to do that again. –xMH_**

 ** _Congratulations. –xMH_**

He smirks, and turns off the screen to his phone, tucking it onto the top cushion of the couch.

 _Why would he need a romantic relationship to 'complete' him when he's perfectly content with what he's got, right now?_

 _John obviously doesn't know what he's talking about._

Something warm and ambiguous pokes at the edges of his consciousness, but he is already half-asleep.

* * *

 **A/N: Thank you for reading!**

 **And thank you, thank you generous anonymous readers who leave such kind reviews! I truly appreciate them and wish I could thank you in person.**


	5. Not So Very Far Off

**Hello! Apologies for the delay in an update. I really do have the rest of the chapters planned out, but toddlers are not very cooperative in providing me regular writing times, and so it looks like an update every 2 weeks will be about the norm. Hopefully the length of this one makes up for it.**

 **Also, this one is still more of a transition chapter, but I think it was necessary.**

* * *

 **Not So Very Far Off**

 _"What I'm trying to say is that if there's anything...I can do, anything you need, anything at all - you can have me."_

 _-_ Molly Hooper, The Reichenbach Fall

* * *

 _"Well," John stands, "Time to go, Rosie." He smiles at her, gathers her things together, and shrugs his jacket on, before reaching for his daughter, where she is perched comfortably on Sherlock's lap._

 _"Right," Sherlock says, looking him over, realizing he's going to visit Mary's grave, for the first time since the funeral, and so – Sherlock hands Rosie to John, and stands, moves to get his own coat – because that's what friends do, isn't it?_

 _"Er," John says suddenly, shifting his weight from foot to foot, not quite meeting Sherlock's eye – "Er, I-" he clears his throat. "I'd rather…you not." He gives him an apologetic glance, and his face is twisted with a shadow of the grief he'd displayed days earlier, in this same room, in this same way, after Sherlock had nearly given his life to pull him out of his spiraling sorrow. "Just – not – this time."_

 _Sherlock freezes for a moment, reading his best friend. "Oh." He waits a beat. "Right." He tries to sound understanding, but he knows he doesn't._

 _John sighs, and swallows. "I'm just – I need – to do this alone, first."_

 _Sherlock frowns, thinking, and then – his face lightens, just a bit, and he focuses on Rosie. His hands move forward, just a bit. "I could – watch Rosamund. While you visit. If you need…time alone. Mrs. Hudson is downstairs, so really, it would be the both of us-"_

 _"No," John says quickly, hoisting Rosie further up his hip, and she settles comfortably there. "No thank you," he amends, realizing he sounded a bit harsh. "I just – need more time. For that." He gives Sherlock a half-hearted smile. "But its – that was good, Sherlock. You're – we're good. I just – need to do this with Rosie. First."_

 _A cloud passes over Sherlock's face, but it is nearly unnoticeable – a slight tightening of his mouth, and around his eyes. "It's all right. I understand." He offers John a small smile, and John's own expression warms in relief._

 _He squeezes Sherlock's shoulder with his free hand. "Thanks. Thank you."_

 _Sherlock nods, his back already to John, looking out the window._

* * *

Her relationship with him has always been a series of mountains and valleys – same as her relationship with every other person in her life. His valleys may be lower than most – almost unbearably so – but his peaks, in return, are higher and clearer and more pure for it. It's remarkable, really, how predictably cyclical it is – like phases of the moon or ocean tides. _The best of times, and the worst of times._

She has the advantage of being _just_ on the outside of his rising and falling, always – and so her perspective of him, and her ability to see through him and his many self-protective layers, has been shaped by the singular fact that she is _close_ , without being _in the midst._

She _feels_ like she's in the midst of it, most of the time, of course – but she tells herself that he sees her as an outlier – off to the side, a necessary anomaly. That helps her to distance herself, to stay a lifeguard – essential, but _'out of sight, out of mind'_ – instead of a participant in the mad relay of his life.

There are times, though, she jumps in after him – and when she pulls him to the shore - _he_ is the one breathing life into _her._

People often wrongly assume that she hangs onto scraps of Sherlock's attention, ever hungry for more, never satisfied with what he's given her – a lovesick puppy, hopelessly begging at his heels for something he is entirely uninterested in giving her –

-but if that were the case, her love for the man would have extinguished long ago, after his first blatant rejections of her interest, and long before he thought to come to her for help in faking his death.

She's not a masochist, but on the other hand - she's also not some sort of goddess of mercy.

He's come very close to depleting her stores of grace, in the past – but she continues to forgive him, because he continues to surprise her. He is oblivious to his own humanity, sometimes, but it has flared to life with increasing fury these past five years. That he not only allows, but seems to _want_ her to experience it with him, brings her unparalleled joy and satisfaction.

She knows, of course, that he will never love her like she loves him – and he may never care for her as openly as he cares for John, or cared for Mary – but he does care for her, deeply and obviously, in his own way.

 _Love is in the little things_ , people say. _In the tiny details._ And so it is with Sherlock – his fondness for her is present in thousands of tiny gestures and words and looks. She just has to look a little harder than she does with everyone else.

* * *

 _He told her, once, that she was bread._

 _After he apologized satisfactorily for the drugs, and Janine, and his comments about the end of her engagement with Tom, he'd started to come again, to her flat. Not often, but enough. One evening before she had to cover the night shift - to keep them both entertained, she'd resorted to taking all of the trash personality quizzes in the celebrity gossip magazines. Sherlock liked to deduce what their results would be before she finished them. The most current was 'What Part of the Sandwich Are You?' Sounded a bit dirty at first glance, considering the article beforehand was on threesomes, but surprisingly, the options were innocent - three kinds of meat, two of cheese, a variety of veggies, and three condiments. Sherlock correctly deduced that he would be an onion, and Molly read the accompanying explanation – 'a strong personality that turns some off, you are an acquired taste. Nevertheless, those that enjoy your presence find that you linger in their thoughts long after you've gone.' Sherlock scoffed, and Molly laughed._

 _"Hmm," she hummed to herself. "Mostly B's, for me. That would make me…let's see…"_

 _'Bread," Sherlock supplied curtly, brushing against her outstretched feet as he stood from his spot on the far side of the couch, tucking his phone into his pocket. Looks like that distraction had run its course._

 _Molly sighed. "That's not even an option, Sherlock."_

 _He pulled a face, and began clanging about in her kitchen, pulling a small frying pan loudly and impatiently from the cupboard beside her stove. "It should be. Bread is the most important part of a sandwich. Who makes a quiz about sandwiches and forgets to include bread as an option?" He poked his head into her fridge and took out several kinds of cheese. "Idiots, that's who," he muttered to himself. "We're surrounded by idiots."_

 _She smiled at him over her knees, from where she'd pulled them up in front of her on the couch. "And why am I bread, Sherlock Holmes? Careful with the cutlery drawer!"_

 _"Because," he sighed dramatically, shutting the drawer much more softly than he'd opened it – "generally, everyone likes you, and you hold the rest of the sandwich together."_

 _She blinked for a moment, the small smile shifting awkwardly on her face - as it always does when she thinks Sherlock doesn't realize he's paid her a compliment. "Mmm. So we're an onion sandwich. Don't think that's high on the list of anyone's favorites."_

 _Sherlock rolled his eyes as he turned the burner on and slathered butter on bread. "No," he said impatiently, lips tugging into a smirk, "but in this poorly crafted quiz, John's obviously ham, and Mary's cheese – though bread would apply to her, too, if it was option, and Mrs. Hudson would get some sort of sauce as her answer, and Lestrade would get either lettuce or turkey, depending on whether or not he's reconciling with his wife for the fourth time. But none of us would make much of a sandwich without the bread, would we?"_

 _Molly flipped the magazine closed, a pleased flush creeping up her neck, though she knew it was just a rare moment of silliness, for him, in that rare interlude where waiting is the only thing to be done with a case. "I think you've just got carbs on your mind," she teased. "Fancying a midnight snack, then?"_

 _"Well," he said, tone clipped - "It's not midnight. But I_ _ **am**_ _unreasonably fond - of them. Carbs. Pull those crisps out of hiding, too. You know the ones. The ones you've hidden behind the bag of flour in your pantry so I won't eat them. What sort of cheese on your cheese toastie?" He'd asked crossly, and she couldn't help but laugh softly with delight at how far they'd come._

* * *

So yes, his 'fondness' is in little things, like laughing over cheese toasties and sharing a weakness for carbs. It's in the way he values her opinion, both in a professional and social setting. It's the way he no longer shies from physical contact with her – he even initiates it, on rare occasions, now – it's the way he trusts her with important facts about himself, and remembers things about her, too - both important things and little things.

On nights he stays over (which are rarer than she'd like, if she's being honest - but they do happen), in the morning, if he makes coffee - he leaves her favorite mug out beside the pot, if she is still asleep in the guest bed before he lets himself out.

On the anniversary of her parents' deaths, he all but chases away any colleagues who have a probability of adding to her workload, that week. Doesn't do much else, but she values her space, then, and he makes sure everyone respects that – including himself.

There is a part of him that is gentler and kinder and more fiercely protective than the world would ever expect of him – it's more than he'd expect of himself, most days - but she sees it – and she sees it because he has trusted her enough to show her that part of him. It was unintentional, at first – but it is more intentional every day.

It's how he peers over her shoulder in the lab. He wrinkles his nose at her, often in distaste at having to wait for her to finish what she's concentrating on - and he smiles that diminutive, almost unnoticeable smile at her when she catches him looking at her.

 _I see you,_ it says. _You are someone worth noticing._

He asks permission – and forgiveness, when he fails to accomplish the former.

He apologizes. Grudgingly, most of the time, but at least it's there.

He displays humility, on occasion, now – after Mary. And compassion – her waking up in John's chair to find he's covered her with a throw and propped a pillow behind her head.

It's how he lays a hand on the small of her back, to steady her as she walks up the stairs to his flat – laden with new materials for his experiments.

He holds doors and catches cabs for her, when her arms are full and they both happen to be leaving Bart's at the same time.

 _And that singular embrace, and gentle apology, when she looked as strung out as she felt, and was seconds from snapping like a brittle bone._

All of the little ways Sherlock has changed, how he has grown, the tiniest things – and some bigger things – he's done; they've all shown the effort he is making to be a good friend, and a better man – for John and Mary, for Rosie, for Mrs. Hudson, for Greg – and for her.

If no one else sees it, that is their problem, and it does not concern her.

Sherlock and his small circle of friends have just endured the lowest of valleys, and she knows they are due for a mountain, now. She looks forward to it – to rising up from stale, oppressive air and being able to breathe easily. She has had a lot of catching up to do, but she feels like balance is almost there – for all of them; they are almost to a point where they can move from mending things to moving forward, and the horizon is bright with hope. It has been nine days since Sherlock caught Culverton Smith and restored his relationship with John Watson – nine days of withdrawal, nine days of healing – and though he's still got a ways to go, the worst of the physical symptoms are over. She spent the afternoon with him, yesterday – the time of sharing 'shifts' with John and Mrs. Hudson over, now - and he was – himself. He was sarcastic and theatrically prickly and charming, making it just that much easier to love him, and just that much harder to be _in_ love with him.

Which is why her mouth drops open in shock when he shows up on her doorstep, just as she is turning down her covers to go to bed, looking for all the world like a clean-shaven version of the drug addict who called her to his flat weeks ago.

* * *

His attempts at picking her lock are feeble at best. He has a key, but he only remembers it half the time - and the rest he picks her lock, to keep in practice. She hears him – and that scares her, because if he were all right – if he were truly all right – she wouldn't hear him.

The scratching and jiggling at her doorknob make her cautiously reach for a heavy book on the end table, and – phone in hand, fingers ready to dial emergency, in case it _isn't_ Sherlock – she pads softly to the door and looks out the small decorative window near its top.

He is resting his forehead on the door, eyes closed, and her heart drops.

She unlocks and opens the door and he stands upright, hands at his sides, chin tucked into the collar of his Belstaff.

"I'm not high," he says abruptly - almost defensively - running a shaking hand through his hair. His body is tense and restless, and he clenches and unclenches his fists as he stands on her welcome mat.

Molly swallows, frowning, dismay worming its way into her chest. "I didn't say you were." She holds the door open wider, motioning for him to come in.

He steps in, and for a split second, both are preoccupied with trivial things – he wipes his shoes and steps to the side, and she closes and locks the door.

His hands are in his pockets now, and he looks uncertain. He hasn't moved to remove his shoes or coat, and Molly worries her lower lip, taking him in.

He glances at her face, briefly, before attempting to focus on any number of things but her. "I'm not high," he repeats –

-and she closes her eyes in understanding. "But you want to be," she says, attempting to keep her voice even and non-accusatory.

He lets out a shaky breath in confirmation.

When he doesn't move to stay or go or clarify, she prods him gently. "What happened?"

He looks at her quickly again. "I'm a recovering drug addict, Molly. This is all _par for the course_ , isn't it?" His voice has a bitter edge to it.

"Mmm," she hums noncommittally, her gaze on him unwavering. He is deflecting, and they both know it. She waits a beat, and then asks again, softly. "So what happened?"

He shrugs his shoulders, but it is more out of discomfort than a dismissal of her question.

"Well," she says, resigned, holding out her hand. "Come on then."

He looks up at her peculiarly, not understanding her cue, and she smiles awkwardly at him.

"Your coat, Sherlock. And your shoes. I'm tired and I'd rather not have this conversation in my doorway. Water? Tea? Coffee? Juice? Biscuits? Leftover pad Thai?..." She rattles off refreshment options like she's a hostess listing specials at a chain restaurant. He hands her his coat almost absent-mindedly, and she hangs it carefully in her front closet.

"Just – water." He mumbles, slipping off his shoes. "Please."

She pauses, tilting her head – he never asks for water, unless - he meets her gaze, and confirms. "Bedroom. If – if-"

She smiles, understanding. "It's still okay." She fills him a glass, adding ice (water is the only beverage allowed in the bedroom, now, where she's just had new carpet installed, after over-nights with Tom and his dog ended, last year) – and he follows her, pensively, to the master.

Molly stands just off to the side of the door, waiting for him to enter. He takes a seat in the armchair between her window and closet, and she hands him the water before sitting on top of her turned- down covers. She draws her legs up and wraps her arms around them, resting her chin on her knees – and waits.

He takes a few long sips of water, and closes his eyes, leaning back in the chair. He stays that way for a moment – limbs splayed, one hand clutching the sweating glass of ice water, his head thrown back on the top of the chair.

His face is half in shadows, the only light coming from the lamp on her nightstand, and his throat is exposed. She can see his Adam's apple bob as he swallows again, and his vulnerability causes a pang of longing to pierce her heart. _Oh, how she aches to smooth the hair from that forehead, to comfort him - to climb on his lap, and kiss that throat, and that jaw, and those lips –_

But she squelches that thought, and shoves it down deep inside her, because he is her _friend,_ now, and it is a friendship that has been hard-won for the both of them, and she will not ruin it with feelings and desires that he has made very clear he thinks are beneath him. She has gotten very good at suppressing those feelings, though they still jump out at her in times like this - when he allows those smallest, most fragile parts of himself to be exposed.

So she presses her lips together, and waits.

After a few moments, his eyes open to stare at the ceiling, though he makes no other move.

"He didn't want me to come," he says.

She waits patiently in the dim light for as long as she can, growing dangerously drowsy before asking "Who-"

He sits forward suddenly and downs the rest of the water, before placing it carefully on the floor beneath his seat. He then leans forward, and rests his elbows on his knees, placing his head in his hands, so that his face is obscured by hair and shadows.

It causes Molly to sit up a little straighter. She doesn't like it when he sits like that, because it's harder to read him when she can't see his face.

"John," he sighs deeply. "It's – stupid." His head moves, just a fraction, and she can tell he'd glanced at her.

"No, it's not."

He snorts. "You don't even know what happened. It was nothing. I'm being illogical. I shouldn't – it's – stupid."

Molly frowns, adjusting herself so that she sits cross-legged on the bed. "John didn't want you to come with him? Where? -"

Sherlock's shoulders sag slightly, and Molly closes her eyes for a moment, groaning inwardly. "To see Mary?" She asks softly.

He shrugs a shoulder in response.

She sits for a moment, before pondering aloud. "I don't think he's been to her grave since the funeral."

"I know!" He groans, working his fingers through his hair. "I know! It's – it's perfectly – well, not _logical -_ "(and she can hear how desperately he wishes it was) – "but – it is _predictable_. He should see her grave alone, first, if that's what he needs to do. But I knew he was going, and went to go with him, and…" he sighs angrily, and it is directed at himself.

Molly blinks, biting her cheek, and waits for him to continue.

"When he didn't want me, I offered to watch Rosamund." He rubs his face with his hands, and sits back in the chair again, tapping out agitated rhythms with his fingertips on the armrest.

And Molly grimaces.

"I _know_ ," he spits, frustrated. "I'm not even two weeks clean, of _course_ he wouldn't let _me_ watch her, even with Mrs. Hudson downstairs – I've never even _wanted_ to watch her, still – don't, really – I wouldn't know -" he cuts himself off abruptly. "I'm an _idiot_."

"No, you're not."

He stretches uncomfortably in the chair. "Mmm," he shakes his head, disagreeing. "Pretty sure I assumed, without even bothering to _observe_ him, that John would want me to accompany him. And a recovering junkie offering to babysit?" He lets out a short bark of laughter. " _Why_ would I do that?"

Molly picks at a loose thread on her comforter, eyes downcast. "Because you're a good friend, Sherlock."

He snorts, disbelieving.

"You are!" She protests. "You're only an idiot for thinking for a _second_ that you're not! How many times, now, have you jumped into life-threatening situations, figuratively or literally, to save John? You've proven quite soundly that you'll do pretty much _anything_ for him, and that includes being there for him when – when he's sad, even though it might make you uncomfortable. You were being a good friend, Sherlock, and yeah – not letting you watch Rosamund while you're still recovering – that's just – good parenting, understandable, but it's – it's okay that you're hurt that he didn't want you to come visit Mary's grave with him. It's also okay that he didn't want you to come, but it doesn't mean he's taken back his forgiveness. He just – needs time."

Sherlock sags against the back of the chair. "That is what he said." He looks deflated.

Molly sighs. She shifts slightly, and pats the comforter beside her. "Come here," she says. "You can have the bed, tonight."

He looks at her, uncertain for a moment, but then stands and reaches the bed in one long stride. He lays down, on top of the comforter, legs crossed at the ankles and hands clasped over his chest. His black eye is almost gone, now, and she can tell his ribs are nearly healed, as well. She smiles, still sitting near the foot of the bed herself.

"You've been a better friend to him, this past year, then he's been to you," she whispers, smile lopsided - and he frowns at her, eyes darting to her face before returning to the ceiling - but she presses on. "And that's not bad – it's a good thing, in general, friends – carry burdens for each other, at different times - but - really. It's ridiculous, sometimes – the lengths you've gone to – I mean, I know he's – he's done wonderful things for you Sherlock – he's a good man, and I'm so grateful you met, and you've been through so much together – but – look at what you let Culverton Smith _do_ to you, just so he could 'save' you. It's really – it – Mary loved _you_ , too, Sherlock. I really don't think she intended for you to go _quite_ that far-"

But she stops, because something in Sherlock's expression alters, just a bit, when she mentions Culverton Smith. "Sorry!" She exclaims, cringing and wrapping her arms around herself in self-reproach. "Sorry, I didn't mean to mention – that – just – I'm glad he's caught." She laughs nervously. "Though I can't believe he got away with murder for so long, not giving you injuries like _that_ , the pathologists at that hospital must be _brain dead_ to explain away injuries like-"

"My injuries were not from Culverton Smith." Sherlock interrupts stiffly. His body has suddenly gone very tense and very still, and it takes her a moment to process what he's just said. Her words peter out, and she suddenly feels very anxious, and very off.

She breathes, in and out, evenly for a moment, but he does not look at her. He blinks once, at the ceiling, and she looks away, hugging herself tighter, as if she's just been hit by a blow to the gut.

 _If it wasn't Culverton Smith, then who…?_

In the silence, they can hear Sherlock's mobile ringing from his coat pocket in the front closet.

Molly shivers, and she remembers, with a sick feeling in her stomach, a quote she'd caught from a news report, flipping through stations. What was it Smith had said? When Sherlock had 'attacked' him with a scalpel? _'Thank goodness Doctor Watson was there, to stop him'_? Something, something like that –

"Sherlock," she whispers, and licks her lips, staring at a rainbow shooting star on her pajama pants – she doesn't want to ask, but now that the thought's entered her mind, she _has_ to ask - "Sherlock, were they from John?"

He breathes evenly – in and out, rise and fall – she watches his chest, and his hands, completely still, on top.

She wants him to scoff – to laugh at her stupidity – to ridicule her for even _thinking_ such a thing.

But he does not deny it, and she wants to cry. Her sinuses tingle with an incoming of tears, and she blinks rapidly, squeezing her hands into fists.

"Molly," he says softly, and it makes her attention snap toward him, because – because his tone is so gentle, and how can he possibly be attempting to comfort _her_ , when his _best friend_ beat him to pulp when he was only trying to save him from drowning is his grief, and _how could he_ and _how dare he_ and they are, both of them, complete _bloody idiots_ –

"Molly," he says again, and she forces herself to focus on him. "He thought I was high as a kite – and I was – and he didn't _know_ it was for him – and there was- " he swallows " – something I missed, in my deductions. I do miss things, occasionally." One corner of his mouth twitches. "I had a scalpel, and though of course my aim was not to kill Smith, John had no way of knowing that. He stopped me from attacking Smith, as I intended him to do."

She is not buying it.

"You _intended_ for John to give you a black eye so severe he nearly detached your retina? You _intended_ for John to nearly break your nose? He almost fractured your _ribs_ , Sherlock!" Her voice is harsh, and she is trembling with rage and betrayal, because John is _her friend, too_ , and she did not know he was capable of such a thing.

"I'd killed his wife, Molly," Sherlock says softly, still cool, still detached, still calmly explaining, as though this mess _wasn't_ the very reason he'd come to her, in the throes of withdrawal, pain driving his mind and body to crave an escape.

"Bollocks!" She hisses, and presses her hands to her face, muffling an infuriated scream, and falls backwards on the bed. " _Why_ do you keep saying that?!" She raises her hands to the ceiling, imploring. "For such a brilliant man, you are _infuriating,_ sometimes, Sherlock!"

She turns and shifts so that she is looking at his profile, her face even with, and a few inches away from, his shoulder. "You did _not_ kill his wife, Sherlock. You did not kill Mary. You don't think Greg told me everything? Vivienne Norbury killed Mary. Not you. _Not. You._ " She presses a finger to his shoulder to accentuate her point.

She lifts her head enough to see that his lips are twitching into a sort of grimace, and then plops her head down again.

"John said that, too. The day I was released from hospital." His voice is barely a whisper.

"Good. He should. Because it's the truth. He never should've blamed you in the first place."

"He said I broke my vow. The day Mary died. And I did. _That's_ the truth."

She can't look at him, because if the sound of his voice is breaking her heart, if she looks at him – she will be done for. "The vow you made at their wedding?"

"Mmm."

"And would you have broken your vow if she'd been hit by a car on her way to work?"

He doesn't respond, but his hands are no longer perfectly still. He keeps scratching his finger with his thumbnail, pressing hard and trembling into the skin.

"What about if she'd gotten cancer? If she died in childbirth? This was an _accident_ , Sherlock. Well – murder. But – not one you committed. And, somehow - she _anticipated_ an early death, didn't she?-" _and that is a whole other can of worms that no one has bothered to open in front of her, yet, though she has her suspicions, but she's off track, now, and she's not making much sense, even to herself -_ "With that disk she made you…her life before John wasn't like her life after, was it? And her choice to save you does not mean that you broke your vow. John was in shock and grieving and he shouldn't have said that." Her words are hard and bitter.

"He didn't need to," Sherlock responds. "I'd already thought it myself."

"Well, you are wrong. You didn't. You didn't kill her and you didn't break your vow and you didn't deserve _any_ of this, Sherlock. You didn't deserve to have the responsibility of saving John thrust on you when Mary couldn't have known that the circumstances of her death would make it nearly - _impossible_ to do so -"

"Improbable, but as you know, not impossible-" he attempts to resurrect a glimmer of pride, somewhere in his voice, and closes his eyes –

"-and you shouldn't have turned to drugs to _do_ the impossible, and you didn't deserve John's misplaced anger and blame and you _did not_ deserve his – you – you didn't _deserve_ what he did to you." Her voice looses its edge at the end, and she shivers, face hot from the effort of _not crying_.

She bites her lip, and when she exhales, she can't seem to do it evenly.

They lay in silence for a moment, Sherlock's worrying hands the only indication that he is not sleeping. Molly is curled toward him, tense and shuddering, her own hands clasped in front of her, breathing deeply through her nose.

Sherlock's voice breaks the quiet, and his voice is small and low, as he opens his eyes to the ceiling. "Please don't hate him, Molly. He – has done so much for me. Forgiven me for so much. I can forgive him this. I _have_ forgiven him. He asked, but he didn't need to." He turns to his side to face her, and shimmies down, just a bit, folding himself up on the bed so that he can look her in the eye. Hesitating for just a moment, he reaches out and brushes a stray lock of hair from her face, his touch feathery; barely there - and lays one hand over hers. "But I don't think I could bear it if you hated him."

She closes her eyes, because she cannot stand the sadness in his.

"I don't _hate_ him, Sherlock," she whispers, after a moment, because the lump in her throat is too big to talk around. "But I-" she exhales loudly, and clears her throat. " _Lord,_ I miss Mary. I miss her so much. She – she always knew just what to say, and I don't – I don't know what to say to him. I can't _not_ say something to him."

Sherlock nods and releases her hand, turning and straightening so that he lies on his back again. "I know," he says softly, and she knows he means it. "Just – avoid slapping him. Might send mixed messages about your feelings on physical violence."

And his eyes widen and his muscles stiffen momentarily as Molly flings her arm around his waist and draws herself close to him, burying her face in his shoulder. "I'm sorry," she murmurs guiltily. "I'm so sorry about that. There are a hundred other ways I could've - expressed myself, and I let my – my brother - affect it. Me. My reaction. I'm sorry."

He frowns. "I know. I've forgiven you that, ages ago. You could probably murder me, after all I've done, and I'd still forgive you." He feels her smile against his arm, and he relaxes. When she doesn't immediately release him, he hesitantly rests his free hand on the arm Molly still has wrapped around his waist, and he peers into the shadows on the ceiling, perplexed.

They hear Sherlock's phone ring again, and then – two minutes later – Molly's, from its charger on the kitchen counter. Sherlock sighs. "They've realized I'm not at home," he murmurs, making no effort to move. "Probably Mrs. Hudson."

And Molly releases her hold on Sherlock and props herself up, hurriedly brushing a few escaped tears from her cheeks. Molly's phone rings again, and then receives two text notifications. Sherlock frowns. "That'll be John, now."

Molly swings her legs over the edge of the bed, but Sherlock's hand travels with her arm as it leaves him, and he grasps her fingers. "Where are you going?"

Molly turns and laughs, short and breathy. "To text Mrs. Hudson and let her know you're here. And then I'm calling John."

Sherlock narrows his gaze at her. "Why call?"

Molly stares him down. "Because I'll forgive him, but part of _my_ healing process will be telling him off – and that's not the sort of thing you do in a text, and I'd like to go to sleep sometime before my next shift."

"You're telling him off?"

"Not for – not for the grave thing. But for everything else. He's been an arsehole. And-"

"-that's my bit?" Sherlock tries a grin on for size, and it's been too long, because it suits him marvelously, Molly thinks.

She snorts. "No, that's not _your bit_. It's not anyone's _bit_ to be an arsehole. I was going to say – friends don't let friends be arseholes."

He smiles. "I must be exhausting, then."

She returns it. "Sometimes. But not tonight."

He still has her fingers in his hand, and he releases them - _almost reluctantly,_ that traitorous voice in her heart says to her. "You'll come back afterwards?"

She smooths out the comforter, because he's never asked her to stay before - ever. "Sure. I'll come back. It is my bedroom, after all." She gives him a half-smile.

He rolls onto his back. "I suppose I can share the space for one night."

 _It doesn't mean anything_ , she tells herself over and over, as she walks to retrieve her phone. _He's hurting and so are you and it's comforting and it doesn't mean anything more than that._

When she comes back half an hour later, he is asleep, still fully dressed, only under the covers. She crawls in beside him, and then turns to face away from him. She is nearly asleep herself when she feels him roll over and throw his arm around her, and - for that lovely, dream-like span of moments before she falls unconscious, she thinks that perhaps – _perhaps._

* * *

He wakes in the morning, and his arm is asleep, because Molly's head is resting on top of it. His other arm is wrapped around her, and he blinks for a moment, as perplexed as he was the night before – _because it feels okay, it feels welcome, even with the messy emotions attached to it, from last night, and this – prolonged casual touching - has never felt okay before, not with – anyone._

He presses his lips to her hair – not exactly a kiss – more of a desire, on his part, for more sensory input – an awakening - before he disentangles himself, careful not to wake her. He sits up in the bed, and moves the blankets so that they trap the warmth close to Molly.

He sits on the edge of the bed, and stares at her for longer than he intends to, face unreadable - because something is different, but he is not sure _what_ , exactly, it is.

Still, the urge to find a fix has passed, and he has the fleeting thought that Molly _was_ his fix – but he shakes his head and straightens his clothes, and picks up the empty glass from its spot on the floor.

He places it quietly in the dishwasher before he leaves.

* * *

Molly stirs slowly; aware she is waking before she fully does - like a bubble settling, for a split-second, on grass before popping. She blinks, and her socked feet are propped on her coffee table, partially finished tea cooled and forgotten beside them. Some ambiguous game show is now on the television, the show she was previously watching long over. She stretches, shifting her cat off of her thigh, and Toby rolls over to give her a disgruntled look for disturbing his sleep. Despite the uncomfortable position, this spontaneous nap has done a lot to help restore rest to her system, after her shift at work and the rather unexpected, but not unwelcome, emotional events of the night before.

Molly smiles, lopsided, to herself. This - this sharing a bed – it is yet another _thing_ – a little thing, for Sherlock – he probably doesn't consider it any more intimate than the hug he gave her, the other week – but it is a quite a substantial _thing_ , for her. It has blurred the lines, for her, and she knows she needs to re-define them, for her own sake. Still, she treasures it.

Someone knocks firmly on her door, and Molly realizes that it is not the first time.

She sighs and stands, stifling a yawn, and adjusts her clothes and hair as she shuffles to the door.

She checks the window, first, and then opens it in surprise. "Oh, hello, Trish." Her neighbor stands on her doorstep, basket filled with biscuits and tea and other goodies in hand, smiling uncertainly.

"Um, hello, Molly 'Ooper. How are you?"

Molly opens the door fully. "Good, thanks. I'm well. Doing – very well." She returns Trish's smile encouragingly. "How are you?"

Trish brightens a bit at that. "All right. It is a bit tiring, caring for Grandpapa alone. His recovery is…progressing, but-" she sighs. "it is wearing, you understand?"

Molly nods sympathetically. "Mmm. Yeah, I – know how it is. Do you – do you need something?"

And Trish looks uncertain again. "Well, you see-" she shifts from one foot to the other, and looks down at the basket in her hands. "I do not really know many people in the area, and – I – thought, since we hadn't really – talked, yet – perhaps, you might like-"

Molly bites her lip, a bit embarrassed at not having been more welcoming when Trish first moved in to help her grandfather, several weeks ago. "Oh, of course! I mean – please come in, would you – like to have tea, now?" She looks over her shoulder for the clock in the kitchen, relieved to find that it is an appropriate time, for tea.

Trish hesitates. "I would not want to impose-"

"No, no!" Molly shakes her head and steps aside for Trish. "Please come in. It was very thoughtful of you to bring tea. And snacks! I should have done this for _you_ weeks ago. I'm sorry. I haven't even stopped by to check on Mr. Girard. I'm not always this – this isolated. It's just – it's been-"

Trish waves off her apologies. "Oh, there has been a death recently, yes? I understand. I did not expect you, and really – Grandpapa would probably prefer not to have any visitors. Still a bit-" she smiles wryly and steps into Molly's entryway – "unhappy with his situation, you know."

"I'm sorry to hear that. I know recovery is slow at best, if it happens at all." Molly stops for a moment, mortified. "Oh, gosh – I'm – sorry-"

Trish shakes her head. "Do not apologize for speaking the truth, Molly 'Ooper." She hands the basket to Molly, taking off her shoes and jacket. "It is refreshing."

Molly gestures to a seat at the table, and places the basket on the counter, beginning to rifle through it. There is an excellent selection of crackers, and crisps, and a box of her favorite biscuits. "Please, make yourself comfortable. This looks lovely – thank you! I'll just put on the kettle."

"Mmm," Trish hums, and settles down at the table, sitting back in the chair and looking about the flat. "You have a lovely place. So clean and fresh. Must be excellent sex, to keep your boyfriend so – cooperative, in keeping it so?"

Molly nearly drops the kettle in the sink at that, and turns to face her neighbor, ears and cheeks burning. " _What_?"

"Oh, forgive me! That was – too blunt, yes?" Trish runs her palms carefully on the tabletop and grimaces before meeting Molly's eyes, apologetic. "I saw the man leave your flat this morning, very early. He's very handsome, is he not?"

Molly realizes she is referring to Sherlock, and though that does nothing to ease her blush, she recovers quickly enough. Dismissing her relationship with Sherlock is something at which she's reached expert-level status.

"Oh," she breathes, settling the kettle on the stove. "That's – that's not my boyfriend. That's Sherlock. We're friends." She finishes brightly, and begins gathering the rest of the supplies, for tea. "Cream and sugar? Lemon? Honey?" She asks her guest, already slicing a lemon for herself.

"So, no sex?" She sounds a bit disappointed.

"No, never."

"Pity. Milk and sugar, please, if it is not too much trouble."

Molly obliges, and settles on opening the biscuits and arranging them on a plate. She chats briefly with Trish about the weather and London traffic, and feels relieved that Trish went so willingly with the change of subject. She sets the tea things on the table and sits across from Trish, and she realizes she was far too grateful, far too soon.

Trish spoons sugar into her tea, stirring slowly and methodically. "So your handsome friend often stays the night?" She asks, feigning disinterest.

It's none of her business – it's never been anyone else's business – but Molly has found that straightforward, simple answers are usually the way to go. "Only once in a while, when he needs to, for work." The last bit is a white lie, but it is true on most occasions, and so Molly feels no guilt over it.

Trish smiles conspiratorially and brings the cup to her lips, her breath causing the steam to puff away from her. She takes a long sip, and gives Molly a pointed look over the cup. "And what does this friend do for work?"

Molly, uninterested in gossiping with this virtual stranger about Sherlock, scolds herself for inviting Trish in to avoid seeming unneighborly. She takes a small sip of her tea, but finds it too hot for her liking, so she takes a biscuit instead. "He's a detective."

"Mmm. For the police?" Trish takes another sip of her own tea.

Molly smirks. "Not so much. But he helps them, sometimes."

"Helps the police? I did not think they asked civilians for help." She sounds amused, and Molly finds herself suddenly irritated.

"No, not usually." If Trish is going to insist on this topic of conversation, she is not going to get any noteworthy answers.

"But they ask _him_? Why?"

"All the time, actually. Because he's – brilliant at it." Molly catches the note of defensiveness in her voice, and frowns. "But anyway, we're just friends. What about you? Do you have anyone?"

"'Anyone'?" Trish sets her tea on the saucer before her, and trails her finger around the rim of the cup. She sighs. "Anyone is such a broad term, Molly 'Ooper. I have people that I…converse with, regularly, but – no. I do not have a _anyone,_ boyfriend or otherwise. Or any family that pays me any mind, for that matter."

"Except your grandpapa?" Molly offers her a tense smile.

"Except for Grandpapa," Trish agrees, and then returns to their previous topic, full circle. "And I am sorry -"

 _Not really,_ thinks Molly, pressing her lips together –

"- but I cannot believe that you have a man like _that_ stay the night at your home, and you are both completely uninterested in pursuing the-"

"Well we're not." Molly interrupts firmly. "We're not interested, and we never will be."

Trish leans back, and if it weren't for the sad downturn of her lips, Molly thinks she would almost look _smug._ "Ah, so final a pronouncement, 'never'! So it is something you _were_ interested in, at one point. Someone turned down the other's advances?" She _tuts_ sympathetically. "Unrequited love – so painful, yes?"

Molly presses her lips together. _Why did she invite her in? She never seemed this nosy before – but then again, Molly has never been the kind of woman to gossip about her love life with acquaintances._ "Oh, no. That was a long time ago," she says, and she wishes her voice sounded more lighthearted.

Trish tilts her head and studies Molly piercingly for a moment. Molly takes another sip of her tea, and it has cooled enough so that it no longer burns her tongue. She wonders briefly how Trish has finished over half her cup already, but reasons that she must've put more milk in than she originally thought.

"Forgive me," Trish says softly. "It is just – I have a soft spot for romance, you know? We can talk about other things, now. I will not prod your sore spot."

Molly blinks, about to protest that it's not a _sore spot_ , but thinks better of it. If this will get her to change the topic, then she will gladly indulge her that thought.

To her pleasant surprise, they speak easily of books and music for only another fifteen minutes, before Trish finishes her tea and politely takes her leave.

Molly locks the door behind her, and lets out a frustrated _huff_. It's been a while since anyone has actually talked to her about her relationship with Sherlock, and she feels off-kilter. One of the things she appreciates most about her small group of friends is that - out of politeness at first, and then a growing love for her – they never mention her feelings for Sherlock. Even when painfully obvious – _she rubs her hand over her face, and thinks of Tom –_ they respect her. Her feelings have changed, so much – from a heady crush to the strong, steady love that she knows she will never feel for anyone else. She is grateful for their continued silence on that particular subject – because being rejected by a crush for coffee is so, so different than being rejected by the man whom she has come to alter her life for, out of a love so deep and all-encompassing that she knows she will never love anyone else in the same way. And she is all right with that, because he counts her as one of his few friends, and she loves him enough to be happy for him, as long as he is happy with what they have.

It is also the reason she has never kissed him – never kissed his cheek, as he's done to her - and never told him lightly, as she'd told John and Mary and so many other friends – that she loves him.

Because she's afraid that in doing so, her love would bubble up from the place where she's so carefully concealed it, and that not even Sherlock would be able to miss it.

* * *

The next time she visits him, a few days later, she doesn't even have time to wriggle out of her jacket before he swings his coat on, and he's already halfway down the stairs as he calls up at her.

"Keep it on," he says, giving her a short smile. "We're going for a walk."

"Oh," is all she can say, and turns to accompany him, closing the door behind her. "What-"

"It's a nice day. Thought we'd take a walk," he says, but there is something hesitant in his voice, and something in the way he pauses for her.

"Okay."

They walk for a bit – for a long while, actually – Sherlock making quick turns and crossing at pedestrian lights that are dangerously close to turning red. Sometimes they walk in silence, sometimes discussing John, or Rosie, or cases or work – until they come back around to the bus station at Gloucester Place. The bus is just loading, and Sherlock hops on, and Molly, surprised, pays their fee.

He stands just inside the door, bracing himself against the nearest pole for support, and she stands beside him. He doesn't usually _do_ busses, and though the bus seems like it's a spur-of-the-moment thing, she knows better. And the walk – it's as though he were building up courage, for something –

And then it clicks.

The bus route.

Kensal Green Cemetery.

They're going to visit Mary.

He notices the expression on her face, and looks away. "I thought," he says quietly, and she strains to hear him over the hum of the engine, and the people, and the whine of the brakes – "I thought that you've – been so involved with John, and Rosamund, and work, and – me - " he whispers the last word, and then presses his lips together for a moment, and she thinks that's all she going to get.

But then the bus stops, and they exit, and his hands are in his pockets. He walks briskly again, and she really has to push her legs to keep up with him. "You said you missed Mary," he continues, just as softly – but now, at the cemetery, she can hear him much more clearly. "I thought you might like a visit."

 _And there he is, breathing life into her again._

They stand before her grave in solemn silence.

Molly bites her lip, and looking at him sidelong, takes his hand in hers.

He says nothing when the tears begin to stream down her face, and after a moment, he pulls his hand away from hers, and puts an arm around her shoulders, drawing her to his chest.

She says nothing of the tears in his eyes.

When they are both satisfied, emptied of their grief for the time being, they share a generous order of chips.

It is dark by the time they share a cab, and her home is the first stop – he briefly slides out of the cab so that she will not have to exit into traffic. He stands by the door, and kisses her cheek after she thanks him, his face lingering beside hers for a split second longer than would be appropriate for friends – and it feels like her heart pauses in her chest, for the length of it.

"Sleep well, Molly Hooper," he says.

And she does.

* * *

The day after the visit to Mary is the day Molly receives a gift, and it is the day before everything goes spectacularly to hell.

She comes home from work, and as she is unlocking her door, there, again – is Trish.

She has a small bag in her hands, and smile on her face.

"Hello, Trish," Molly says warily, not wanting a repeat of their visit the week prior.

"Hello, Molly 'Ooper," Trish says, and she tilts her head in that peculiar way Molly noticed the last visit, as though she is taking Molly's measure, and has found something interesting, there.

When she doesn't speak, Molly shifts her work bag further up on her shoulder. "Um-"

Trish blinks once, slowly, like a cat – and then smiles. "I am sorry. I just wanted to give you this-" she holds out the small gift bag, tissue paper peeking out the top – "and to say thank you, for bearing with me."

Molly looks between the bag and Trish before bending down to allow her work bag and purse to rest at her feet. She takes the bag, and she knows she _should_ be smiling and thanking her warmly, but she just feels – off, still, after their last visit, and so her smile comes off awkward and forced.

"Oh, um-" Molly takes a breath. "Thank you. You really didn't need to -" and she opens it, and it's surprisingly lovely – a colorful beaded bracelet.

"Oh," she breathes again, and her smile is much more genuine, now. "Thank you, Trish." She frowns, placing it gently back in the bag. "Why-?"

"Oh, my work here is almost done," Trish says pleasantly. "I have one more appointment to make, tomorrow, and then I must return home. This is good-bye, Molly 'Ooper. You have been most helpful."

And though Molly hasn't really done anything helpful for Trish at all, she thanks her again, and wishes her well, and promises to check in on Mr. Girard, and apologizes for not having anything for her.

Once again, Trish waves her off. "Non, non mon ami – you have given me _plenty_."

Trish turns to walk away, and Molly unlocks her door.

"And, Molly?" Trish calls, turning to walk backward a few steps – and Molly lifts her head. "Molly 'Ooper, you were right. I saw him kiss you, last night, before the cab. He _is_ just a friend, is he not? Do not waste your time with that one."

But Molly, confused, doesn't have a chance to reply before Trish disappears into her flat, three doors down.

* * *

 _"Come on, then," John says gruffly, after barging into Sherlock's living room. "We're going to visit Mary."_

 _Sherlock blinks. "Don't – you – have – therapy, today?" He drawls out slowly, haltingly, eyes darting from the clock on the fireplace to John._

 _"Yeah, not until three. I missed the last two weeks, what with the Culverton case and Rosie's ear infection. I can stand to be a bit late to this one, too. Something more important's come up."_

 _And so the two men walk slowly toward the grave of the woman they both dearly loved, in their own different ways – their first journey, together, to this solemn marker of the lowest point in their friendship._

 _Sherlock's brows draw together as they near Mary's headstone. It has changed, since his visit with Molly. Name, birth and death dates, 'Beloved Wife, Mother, and Friend' – all the same; but beneath the 'beloved' epitaph – a new plaque – applied – this morning?_

 _They stand, elbow to elbow, before it, and Sherlock trembles as he silently reads the words that John has deemed important enough to add to his late wife's gravestone._

 _"Greater love has no one than this: that one should give up one's life for one's friends." John 15:13_

 _"I-" Sherlock stops, pressing his lips together, eyes blinking rapidly._

 _"She loved you enough to die for you," John says quietly, emotion making his voice gruff. "And I'd have done the same. For both of you. Still would, actually."_

 _Sherlock exhales through his nose, air leaving his lungs in a rush. He draws it in just as quickly._

 _John turns toward him, shame of his past actions and grief for his lost wife intermingling freely in his expression. "And I'm sorry, Sherlock. For being – the biggest, most unforgiveable arse. Mary would have – she'd have shot_ _ **me**_ _for the way I've been, lately. You're – you're still my best man. My best friend." He finally looks Sherlock in the eye. "Always will be."_

 _John turns back to look at Mary's grave, and glances up, surprised, when Sherlock presses lightly against him._

 _"And," John adds, after a moment, "I hope, one day, I can-"_

 _"You already are," Sherlock says quickly. "You still are."_

 _The two men lean against each other, words unnecessary._

 _It is what it is._

* * *

 **A/N: Thank you for reading, and for your reviews, follows, and favorites! They are always appreciated!**

Edited 3/12/19 - Dear Guest reviewer, I apologize. I have edited this chapter to take out the reference to 'the French', as you are right, and it was an unintentional stereotype. I did not mean to portray the French people incorrectly or offensively. If you continue reading, you will see why 'Trish' is the way she is, and that it is not because she is French. I hope this edit will reach you, because I would have liked to apologize in 'person' with a message. Thank you for sharing your opinion!


	6. Ocean Swell

**A/N: Apologies! Profuse apologies for the slight delay. I'll spare you the gory details, but the entire house had the stomach flu. We are better, but - my daughter, bless her, is too young understand the concept of using a bucket. *shudders* The horror. The horror! *hold me***

 **Also, this chapter is...long. Maybe too long, but the next chapters will be a more reasonable length.**

 **Also also, I don't own Sherlock.**

 **Thanks for reading!**

* * *

 **Ocean Swell**

 _"I don't count."_

 _-Molly, "The Reichenbach Fall"_

* * *

She knows the words shouldn't matter. They shouldn't stick with her. And consciously, they don't.

But they are fixed in the back of her mind, biding their time, waiting to push to the forefront of her memory at the opportune moment.

It's a bit like being yelled at by a stranger on the tube for bumping into them, causing them to spill their coffee - or like being berated for a lack of human decency when she _accidentally_ let the door close on a heavily pregnant woman.

It shouldn't matter, the words shouldn't mean anything – just consonants and vowels from the mouths of strangers who know very little to nothing about her life - and thus, can make no sound judgments upon it.

But Trish's words – like the stranger on the tube, and the hormonal pregnant woman -they make a tiny part of Molly wonder if what they say is true.

A tiny part of her wonders if these strangers can objectively see something she's missed, something she's oblivious too, because she's too wrapped up in her own world – a 'can't see the forest, for the trees' type of situation.

She brushes the words themselves off firmly, because her neighbor doesn't know anything – what's she seen, a handful of encounters, at most, through shuttered blinds? – And yet, the _feelings_ associated with those words cling like dust to the back of her mind.

 _Don't waste your time…you're not worth much of his._

It doesn't help that Molly's sister decides to call.

After her strange encounter with Trish, Molly heads inside to rest. She's switched her schedule with a coworker so that Bonnie could travel to Devonshire for her niece's birthday. During a quick nap between shifts, Molly misses her sister's two calls, and several of her texts.

By the time she wakes, she needs to shower, eat, and head out the door in less than an hour, and so she studiously ignores said calls and texts until she's safely on the Tube on her way to work.

 **Molly! It's Meghan, give me a call when you get a chance. –MY**

 **Molly! Did you get my messages? I want to hear from my baby sister! –MY**

 **Molly. It's only 6. Why aren't you answering my calls? Or my texts? –MY**

 **It's 6 on a Saturday night! Are you on a date?! –MY**

 **Give me a smiley face if you're on a date. –MY**

 **Or a frowny if it's bad and I'll call again to save you. -MY**

 **At least let me know you're alive. –MY**

 **Molly?! –MY**

Molly inhales slowly through her nose, attempting to draw patience into her chest as well as air. Meghan Young (previously Hooper) has always had a flair for dramatics that, at times, rivals that of a certain consulting detective. The difference, however, is that Meghan has never seemed to grasp the idea that Molly occasionally works the night shift. She has also never grasped the concept of leaving _one_ message and waiting patiently for the recipient of said message to return it at a time most convenient for them. Sherlock, at least, has managed that.

Molly thinks that perhaps she can get away with turning her phone on silent and waiting until her shift is over the next morning to call her sister, but rolls her eyes when the next text comes in.

 **Do I need to file a missing person's report? – MY**

It's like she can _sense_ Molly's looking right at that moment.

Sighing, Molly hits the _Call_ icon next to her sister's name, and is not surprised when her sister picks up mid-way through the first ring.

"Molly!" Meghan calls cheerfully, and Molly has to hold her phone away from her ear, for a moment.

The person beside her on the Tube gives her a look and turns away, before Molly has the chance to mouth _sorry_. Molly grimaces and moves so that there is a seat between them.

"Meghan, hi-" Molly says softly, trying to bring her sister down to her voice level.

"Why didn't you answer my calls?"

 _Because I didn't want to talk to you,_ Molly thinks – but she pauses a moment before replying patiently. "I was sleeping, Meg. I have the night shift tonight."

"Oh, they're still making you work those? I'd have thought you'd have gotten more seniority or something by now." Molly opens her mouth to respond, but hears Meghan turn away from the phone before addressing her son. "Not now, Nathan. Go play. You've only got a bit of time before bed, besides. Who is it? I'm talking to Aunt Molly. Do you want to-?"

Molly would be lying if she said Nathan's disappointed 'oh, no thanks,' didn't hurt, just a bit.

"Anyway, where was I?" Molly hears Meghan close a door, and assumes she's gotten herself some privacy. "Oh, yes – night shift! Well, how's work, then?"

"Oh, you know – murder on my feet, but at least the company is usually pretty quiet." Molly smiles to herself.

"Ugh. Molly, that's terrible!" Meghan groans.

"Work really is good, though," Molly continues. "One of the patients I worked on last week had an extremely rare skin condition, and-"

"-No details, please," Meghan interrupts primly. "That's not exactly polite conversation, you know, Molly-dolly."

 _Neither is using a nickname I've hated since I was five,_ grumbles Molly to herself. Still, she knows better than to bring that up again. It would only lead to tears and half-hearted non-apologies like 'it's just a bad habit, you know I don't mean to bother you' mixed in with a good helping of 'why do you keep bringing it up when I've already said I was sorry'. Correcting her over five letters wasn't worth it.

"Well, then what would _you_ suggest talking about, Meghan?" Molly asks, barely hiding her sarcasm. "I've got about ten minutes before I get to work."

"Glad you asked!" And Meghan launches into an explanation of how she ran into _her_ husband Richard's friend's brother, and he's a doctor, too – a surgeon, in fact - but he works at a children's hospital and specializes in heart conditions, and isn't that _fascinating_? – And he's such a smart man, and very successful, and so _sweet_ to work so well with children, and Nathan just adores him, because don't you know she was so _interested_ in his work that she couldn't help but invite him for dinner to hear more, and wouldn't you know that he's _single?!_

Molly's eyes glaze over halfway through Meghan's speech, but her mouth snaps shut and her spine straightens, just a little, when Meghan mentions that the supposed-doctor-from-heaven is single.

"Not interested, Meghan," she snaps. _How many times does she have to say it?_

"Molly!" Meghan exclaims, and Molly is reminded of when her sister used to scold her for asking inappropriate questions at the dinner table.

"Thank you, Meghan, but really – I'm not interested in a doctor from Edinburgh, no matter _how_ many hearts he's worked on." She says firmly.

"It's in the hundreds! I'm sure you'd find all sorts of morbid things to discuss! And what's wrong with Edinburgh?" Meghan says crossly.

Molly sighs, and grabs her bag as she stands to exit the Tube car. _Carriage,_ a voice in her head reminds her, and she can't help the small twitch of her lips, despite being hounded for not living a life her sister approves of. "Nothing's wrong with Edinburgh. But I live in London. I like my job. I have a lovely flat in the center of town. I have friends. I'm happy."

Meghan huffs, and Molly thinks she's been successful, until –

"I talked to Tom the other day."

Molly freezes on the stairs, blinking for a moment, thinking she somehow misheard something. After a moment, she presses the phone to her ear again. "Excuse me?" Her voice is low and angry.

"Don't be angry, Molly, please! You know he'd promised to help Nathan out with his-"

"I thought when we broke up I'd at least get to keep my _sister_ ," Molly interrupts bitterly.

"Oh, Molly-dolly, don't be like that!" Meghan croons softly. "We love you! You do have us! We just – you know how much we liked Tom, and Nathan was asking about help with lacrosse, you know how he enjoys it – and his crosse stick broke last week, so we called him to see about getting the next level up as a replacement, you know?"

"I've got to go," Molly says abruptly, moving up the stairs again.

"No – no! Don't you dare hang up on me, Molly Hooper!" Meghan says sternly. "I _love_ you. It's because I love you that I just - I just thought you should know that he's moved on. He's dating a nice girl from Brunswick. Met her on a business trip. He's happy; he's moved on," she repeats. "I think it's time that you did, too."

Her words are meant to be gentle, but they grate on Molly. She realizes that her shoulders are hunched up, tense, and she consciously makes an effort to pull them back and stand straighter. "Just because I'm not dating again doesn't mean I haven't moved on," she says stiffly as she walks briskly towards Barts.

"I'm not talking about moving on from Tom," Meghan says seriously.

At that, Molly stops again, lifting one hand, palm open to the sky, as if asking the universe _why_? "Then I'm not sure what you're referring to," she says evenly.

" _Molly_ ," Meghan says, in her motherly warning voice. "You _do so._ "

There is uncomfortable silence for a moment, and then Meghan sighs. "I'm sorry, Molly. But I feel like it's my duty as your big sister to encourage you to _let the man go_. He's not doing you any favors, and if you keep him on, you'll _never_ find someone to marry and grow old with. I hate to say it, but I'm not surprised things didn't work out with Tom – and things won't work out with anyone else if you don't seriously examine your boundaries with Sherlock Holmes. I want you to be _happy_."

Molly closes her eyes and prays for patience. "Meghan. For the last time, I _am_ happy. I love my job, even when I _work the night shift._ I _like_ living in London. I _like_ my friends. I love my goddaughter. I _like_ the boundaries I have with Sherlock Holmes. We're friends. I'm _happy_."

"You don't sound very happy."

Molly grits her teeth. It's the same conversation, every time, and she's tired of having it. "Just because my life isn't like _yours,_ or like Mum and Dad's was, doesn't mean I'm not happy."

"Despite what you think, I _know_ you, Molly. And I know you'd be _happier_ if he returned your feelings, but we both know _that_ isn't going to happen, and wasting your time waiting around for him to-"

"Meghan," Molly warns. "I am _fine_. I am not _wasting_ – I'm not waiting for him. I enjoy being his _friend_. If I grow old and die alone with twelve cats and a handful of good friends and a goddaughter who visits, occasionally, so be it – I'll be content with that. Stop trying to 'fix' my life for me. I made it this way because - because I _like_ it this way." Her voice rises unintentionally as she approaches the doors to the hospital.

"Methinks somebody protests too much."

"I've got to go. I'm at work. Good- _bye_ , Meghan."

She doesn't listen to the entirety of Meghan's good-bye before smashing her finger on the _End Call_ button and going in to work.

* * *

John wakes slowly, his vision as hazy and swirling as his stomach. He closes his eyes against the moving shadows before him, nauseated.

 _She shot me._

He feels hands smacking his cheek lightly, and a voice – sort of – annoyingly - familiar –

"Wake up, John. That's right – wake _up!_ "

He groans and attempts movement in his fingers and toes. He feels a bit stiff, a bit bruised – but all in all, not bad.

 _Not dead, then_.

"Yes, yes, fingers, toes, arms, legs – they all work just fine. Your eyes would, too, if you'd open them. A minor tranquilizer, wearing off quickly, no lasting side effects. It would be _most_ helpful if you'd- _mmph_ "

The speaker grunts as John's fist closes around a handful of fabric from a familiar Belstaff and uses it to pull himself upright.

He blinks groggily, releasing Sherlock's coat, and the detective before him staggers slightly, adjusting his coat before crouching down in front of his friend.

Apparently, John is taking too long to come to, because Sherlock places a gloved hand on his cheek again, patting him lightly until John shoves his hand away in irritation.

" _Enough_!"

"Well, _you've_ taken long enough to wake up," Sherlock huffs petulantly. He hesitates for a moment, lips pressed together in concern. "Are you all right?"

"I'd be better if I hadn't just been shot by your _bloody sister._ " He rubs a hand over his face, and then glances up at Sherlock, peering at him to gauge his reaction.

 _If he's been hiding this, this whole time –_

But Sherlock scoffs, disbelieving. "Sister? I don't have a _sister._ " He narrows his eyes at his friend. "Better stick with blogging, John, your deductions are getting more ridiculous with each attempt." He pulls something out of his pocket, and John realizes it must be the tranq dart he was shot with. Sherlock peers at it for a moment, and waves it under his nose, sniffing, before placing it back in his pocket. "Nope," he says, emphasizing the _p_. He straightens, and holds out a hand to help John up from the floor. He squints at the back of John's head. "Just your run-of-the-mill sedative. Should I have called an ambulance? Perhaps you hit your head harder than I first-"

John pulls away and runs a hand over the back of his head. Not even a bruise. His muscles are tense from being cramped in the position he'd fallen in, but judging by the tenderness on the left side of his body, he must've taken the brunt of the fall with his hip and arm. "I'm _fine_. Really. Fine. Better off than – _damn,_ did you find-?"

"Therapist in a sack in the airing cupboard? Yep. Dead. Strangulation. Open and closed case. Except for the whole 'who-dun-it' thing. Already gotten everything I can from her. I'll place an anonymous call to the Yard when we leave, but I wanted to make sure I'd had free run of the place, first. You've missed your shift at the clinic, don't worry – I called you in."

John shakes his head disbelievingly. " _Why-?_ "

"Why did I call your absence in, or why were you out for so long? If it's the latter, shame on you – tranq dart, you told me quite clearly you'd been shot. You're having trouble keeping up with yourself, and that's concerning, even for you. If it's the former, I called you in because I needed your help."

Sherlock pulls something out his pocket – a folded, aged piece of paper with uneven writing sprawled on one side. "Moriarty. I found the note – tangible _proof_ \- and I realized Faith Smith may not have come to see me about her father, but _someone_ did. By the time I realized you'd never left your therapy session and got here to find out why, you were out. And alone. Except for the therapist in the cupboard. Someone went to great lengths to-"

"That _someone –_ the one who visited you - was my therapist! Well, the woman who _murdered_ the woman who was _supposed_ to be my _actual_ therapist." John gestures with his hands as he talks, his agitation growing. "Told me you had _great_ taste in chips. She also claims to be your sister – and - "

Sherlock steps back, brow furrowed at this latest information. "Interesting…" he mutters, flipping the paper in his hand back and forth.

"- _and_ – she was – the - " He sighs, looking at his feet before raising his eyes to meet Sherlock's, his expression serious. " – she was also the woman on the bus."

Sherlock's focus snaps from John to the paper and back again. "Miss me…" he mutters, frowning.

John folds his arms in front of his chest, looking Sherlock up and down. "This has something to do with Moriarty, then? Was she one of his 'hired men'? Er, women? Did she lie about being your sister, too, or is there _actually_ some dirty family secret that no one's bothered to share with you?"

Sherlock's lips part, and he shakes his head, as though to clear it, before answering. "I don't know." He looks up at John, and John raises his eyebrows.

"I really don't!" Sherlock protests. " _Never reveal a theory without first having all the facts_. We are missing facts, here, John – _so_ many facts. There is most definitely a connection to Moriarty – the note Not-Faith Smith left ties in with his video, but this new information is – unexpected." He frowns, walking toward the table beside the therapist's chair, and brushes his fingers against its surface.

John exhales abruptly. "Facts, then. Right. She wore contacts. And a wig. I mean – obviously, or I'd have recognized her right off – wouldn't I have? Don't answer that. And she – she can change her _voice_ , Sherlock. Pretty convincingly. Accents and everything. And she fooled _you_ twice _-_ "

"-I was off my tits both times-" he dismisses, waving his hand -

"-Really? You were pretty keen, before, on chalking up your _brilliant_ deduction of Smith to being 'off your tits', so I'm not sure why it would help you with _that_ and not-"

"It's troubling, yes, we've determined that." Sherlock snaps, folding the paper in his hand and tucking it back into his pocket.

The friends stare around the room, the afternoon sun sinking in the sky and bathing it in golden light.

"Not that it's definitive proof, or anything," John says gruffly, "but her eyes are almost _exactly_ like yours." Sherlock sighs, and John rubs the back of his neck. "And you have to admit, she was bloody brilliant at…whatever the hell it was, she was doing. So she's either related to Moriarty or you, because no way any normal human being could pull off being three different people for such a long time."

Sherlock nods. "Unfortunately, there are only three people who can confirm or deny the hypothesis that I have a sister, and only one of them would be able to do so without wasting time with unnecessary emotional overtones."

"Mycroft?" John asks.

"Mycroft." Sherlock sighs. "But if the woman _was_ telling the truth-"

"Eurus." John interrupts again, remembering more. "Said her name was 'Eurus'. She said – she _specifically_ said that it was Greek, for-"

"-The East Wind." Sherlock breathes, and his eyes widen and then narrow in concentration, before his lips part in shock. For the first time since John asked him to be his best man – he is speechless.

"Mmm. 'Dirty family secret' looking much more probable, now, isn't it?" John says slowly, thinking it through himself. "Though your parents don't seem the sort to-"

"Nope," Sherlock agrees. "This has Mycroft _all_ over it. The problem is getting him to _admit_ to it."

"Well, she's mad. Your sister. In the insane, psychopathic, apparently genius sort of way. _If_ you have a sister, and Mycroft knows, he's been hiding her for a reason. And that story, about the _terrifying_ East Wind that 'lays destruction to all in its path'?" John inclines his head and raises his eyebrows. "I think he's a little bit afraid of her. I think she might be smarter than him. She'd have to be, wouldn't she, to keep this-" he throws his arms wide, encompassing the whole mess they've just discovered – "from him?"

Sherlock raises an eyebrow at him.

John nods in Sherlock's direction. "He's not going to tell you the truth unless he's wetting himself."

Sherlock's lips tug up at the corners. "Are you suggesting-"

"-we make him piss himself? Absolutely."

Sherlock smirks. "I know just where to start."

* * *

"Are you sure?" John asks as Sherlock slides into the car beside him.

Sherlock's fingers are flying over his phone, already contacting resources to pull off their plan to force Mycroft's hand. "Absolutely. Bart's. Molly's working the night shift and I need blood."

"Blood?" John looks sideways at him and starts the car, easing out of the therapist's driveway and heading for the expressway.

"Mmm. The pig's blood the med students use should suffice. Bit thicker, as it's thawing. Better coagulation for a good 'tears of blood' effect. It'll only take Molly a minute."

John nods. "Are you going to tell her, then?"

Sherlock stops with his phone for just a moment and gives John a look that tells him he's said something incredibly stupid. " _Yes,_ John, I think it's a grand idea to tell Molly that I may or may not have a sister who may or may not be a criminal genius who may or may not be connected to Moriarty, and to find out the truth? She'll _definitely_ helps us carry out a plan to psychologically torture the brother she _does_ know into confessing."

"So that's a no, then." John raises he eyebrows and refocuses on the road.

Sherlock snorts. " _There_ you go. Took a while, but you're brain's working again. Still, better let me do the talking when we get to Molly."

John smirks. "Bugger off."

They drive for a bit, adrenaline causing John to swerve around the slower cars on the express with increasing agitation, pushing the speed limit as much as he dares. The only sound is Sherlock clicking away on his phone. They have a plan, now and he's ready to enact it.

They are halfway to Bart's when Sherlock pauses for a moment, frowning. "John- " he begins, and then cuts himself off.

"Yeah?" John glances at him.

"In therapy-" he hesitates for a moment.

"Yeah?" John asks again, frowning at a car going five under the speed limit in front of them.

"I assume you spoke of Mary?"

"Yes," John responds slowly.

"And Rosamund?"

"Yeah…should I be – forget I asked; of _course_ I should be concerned - " His hands tighten on the steering wheel. He'd already called the sitters, to check on her and to tell them they'd have Rosie for the weekend, but maybe he should reconsider -

But Sherlock shakes his head. "She's at the sitters? The couple that runs a small all-hours day-care out of their home on Highcastle?"

"Yeah-" John gives him a questioning look. "Why-"

"They've been vetted. She's perfectly safe with them. And…"

John narrows his eyes at Sherlock, briefly. "What?"

Sherlock raises his eyebrows innocently. "She may be under surveillance. By both my network and, when he's free, one of Mycroft's agents. Lestrade may send an extra patrol 'round to check on things, occasionally – make sure the street stays quiet. For the time being, Rosamund's probably safest there, with – Frank and Nancy?" He looks at John for confirmation.

"Hank and Nina," John corrects, then sighs. "I _want_ to be a bit put off about that, but I suppose I should thank you for it, now."

"You should." Sherlock responds, and continues matter-of-factly. "And me?"

John frowns, confused. "And you – what?"

"In therapy, did you discuss me?"

"Yes."

"Anyone else?"

"Mycroft, a bit."

"That all?"

John looks at him out of the corner of his eye, curiously. "I never mentioned Molly, if that's what you're asking. Well - just that one day she showed up with the ambulance."

Sherlock presses his lips together.

"Good."

* * *

"Pig's blood?" Molly asks, confused, holding a sterilized tray with a lung before her. John does his best to look anywhere but at what she's holding, but his eyes land on the cadaver – and he decides Molly is the safer bet. It's not that he's particularly disgusted by this – he's a doctor, after all – it just – seems – a sort of invasion of privacy of the deceased, to be staring at their innards when they weren't invited to. "Why on earth do you need that? It's all the way on the other side of the hospital. In the research wing."

"Yes." Sherlock's hands are clasped behind his back.

"I'm in the middle of an autopsy."

"Yes. Your timing, admittedly, isn't the best – but if you leave now, John and I will be out the door and out of your way in…less than fifteen minutes." He gives her a tight smile.

" _My_ timing isn't the best?" Molly raises an eyebrow, incredulous, and glances at John. He shrugs and grimaces apologetically.

"Don't stress over it," Sherlock says, his tone clipped.

Molly snorts. "I'm not."

Sherlock inclines his head, taking in the deceased woman before him. "Unless, of course, you'd prefer to give us some of…Ms. Porter's blood?"

"Absolutely not!"

"What the hell, Sherlock?!"

Molly and John exclaim simultaneously, both giving the man standing between them a judgmental look.

Sherlock glances between them, narrowing his eyes in confusion. "Just trying to be considerate. It would save you – and us – eight minutes. It's not like _she_ needs it anymore."

But Molly has already surrendered the fight, and so she places the tray on the worktable and walks to the sink to remove her apron, goggles, and gloves. As she washes up, she's just a _bit_ too vigorous with the scrubbing, and John looks sideways at Sherlock.

"Err…" he says quietly. "Maybe we should just use fake blood, then?"

"No!" Sherlock screws up his face in disgust. "He'd notice that, and it would ruin the effect."

"Who would notice, then?" Molly asks just a bit too cheerfully, suspicion crowding her features.

"Mycroft," Sherlock replies innocently, schooling his features into an expression of indifference. "It's for him."

"Funny, I thought he usually preferred cake," she mutters, her lips quirking up at the corners.

John snorts – but while she would usually get at _least_ a twitch of the lips from Sherlock, he remains stoic.

She turns toward her friends and crosses her hands in front of her. "So why does brother dear need pigs blood from the research wing at _my_ hospital?"

Sherlock frowns. She usually doesn't question requests from Mycroft, because both brothers have asked her for far stranger, and more difficult, things than what he's currently asking of her – and she's usually more fond of his brother than what her last comment would suggest. And then he notices that her phone is not on its usual safe place on the counter – which means she's left it in her locker, and she only does that when her sister's called.

He smirks. "There, you see, John? She's not angry with _us_. She's peeved at her sister for calling and berating her for her love life…or lack thereof."

John looks between the two, a startled look on his face, but Molly is unfazed. She shifts her weight to one hip and tilts her head, unimpressed. "Actually, I'm just a bit peeved at you, too." It's obvious she's suppressing a smile, though, so neither man takes it too seriously.

Sherlock ignores her last comment. "I don't know why you don't take my advice and just ignore her. Block her number."

Molly snorts. "Well, I can see how well that works for you with Mycroft-"

John nods and inclines his head toward the detective, smirking. "She's got you there-"

"-Besides – though she is a giant pain in my arse, most of the time – she is my sister. I still love her."

"Poor excuse for having to love someone. You didn't choose to share DNA with her."

Molly snorts. "And suddenly you're an expert on all things love?"

"I've been told far too often it's a chemical defect found on the loosing side." He recites.

John and Molly exchange a look. _Can you believe this idiot?_

"What?" Sherlock notices their look, defensive.

"Well, I'd agree with you," Molly says sarcastically. Both men raise their eyebrows in surprise, and she smiles. "You've been told that rubbish _far_ too often."

"Mmm," John agrees. "And for being a found on the ' _loosing side'_ , you're still here, aren't you, you bloody git? And I'm pretty sure the only reason you're still here is that we all lo-"

Molly sighs loudly, interrupting him. "Right. Pig's blood it is." She smiles uncertainly at John, and inclines her head toward Sherlock, who has drifted a bit closer to the body on the slab. "Don't let him touch anything. I'll – hey! Is that my jumper?!"

As Molly moves to the door to exit the morgue, she notices the bag Sherlock has in his hands, still clasped behind his back, and grabs at it.

"Also for the case," Sherlock explains.

"Absolutely not!" Molly protests. "What did – did you break into my locker, Sherlock? That's my spare outfit-" she grabs at the bag Sherlock is carrying on his arm, where she can see one of her old, ratty jumpers and a skirt that only _sort-of_ matches.

"-in case of emergency," Sherlock says, pulling the bag protectively closer to himself. "And it is an _emergency._ As I explained earlier, _time is of the essence._ "

Molly narrows her eyes at him. "What on earth could you possibly need my emergency clothes for? Dressing in drag? Because-"

"Of course not," Sherlock wrinkles his nose. "We could do much better if that were our goal-"

Molly's mouth drops open, but it is more of shock and frustration than offense.

"-but one of my network _will_ be, and your style is deliberately juvenile, and that is what we're going for, in – less than two hours, now - hence the need for the clothes. You haven't used them in years, why are you suddenly so protective of them?"

"Because they're _mine,_ you didn't _ask,_ and if it's someone from your 'network' using it for one of your _games_ , you can give them a few pounds and send them to a thrift store." She pulls the bag off of Sherlock's arm, and after resisting for a moment, he sighs and lets her have it. "Besides," she sniffs delicately. "I still like this jumper. It's comfortable. And if I need to use my emergency outfit because a corpse oozed gunk all over me, or exploded into bloody bits, I want something comfortable."

" _Gunk_ ," he mumbles, only barely suppressing an eye roll. "How well you showcase your scientific prowess, Molly Hooper. But we really do need the blood. _Quickly_. It's imperative to the success of our case. We need to be out the door in - " he checks his phone – "ten minutes, if we're to meet my network and enact the plan in time."

"The case that has to do with Mycroft? What _exactly_ is going on?" She eyes him suspiciously. _Now_ she's noticing something's off. The requests he's made tonight are outside his usual scope of odd, and he's – well - jittery. Like he was with Moriarty, and at John's wedding, and with the whole Mary – thing – before she left. Like he's fitting pieces together, but he's missing a few, and he's desperate to complete the puzzle.

Sherlock and John exchange a _look_ , and Sherlock shakes his head slightly. He turns back to her, with a guarded expression on his face. "It may have something to do with the Moriarty footage," he says, and stares at her with what's meant to be an open expression.

He's not telling the truth – not the _whole_ truth, anyway – but she knows that the video fiasco from earlier in the year had still not been fully resolved, and so, warily, she agrees.

"I suppose, if it has to do with Moriarty-" she says slowly.

"Yes." Sherlock raises his eyebrows expectantly.

"-and as long as you promise I won't be implicated in anything involving national security-"

"Yes, yes, as always, you and your job are secure, rock-solid, unquestionable, now please _do_ stop wasting time, Molly Hooper. We have _exactly_ seventy-five minutes to enact my plan, and if we don't have the blood thawed to the proper temperature, it will not - it will not be as useful as it needs to be."

Molly frowns at him, prickly at the suggestion that _she_ is the one wasting _his_ time. "Wait here. Don't touch anything," she warns.

" _Thank you_ ," he replies. She pushes through the doors, and Sherlock takes a step toward the body on the slab, again.

" _Don't touch anything!"_ She repeats -

And though the two men don't realize it, she looks back over her shoulder, just in time to see them look from the swinging door to each other, exchanging grins and a private joke.

Part of it makes her want to grin as well – because they're back, properly together again, the best of friends she's ever had the privilege of knowing, in this world - but part of it makes her heart sink – just a little – because it would appear she's back on the sidelines, again.

Molly Hooper, who matters to Sherlock Holmes – but only matters _most_ when he's counting on her for something.

* * *

Molly's brows draw together as she fumbles with her keys. It had been a busy night, with an extra body coming in to the morgue, and more paperwork besides. And while Sherlock's interruption was quick, he seemed a bit more touchy than she'd recently grown accustomed to – insulting her clothing style and insinuating that she'd been wasting time.

Still, she shakes it off easily enough. If the case really is connected to Moriarty, then it explains his focus on results and efficiency and lack of manners. It's a sign he's using that brain of his to focus on problems and puzzles, instead of social cues and politeness.

She is glad she has the next two days off. After a quick shower, she falls into bed and into sleep quickly enough.

She wakes several hours later to the constant ringing of her phone.

She blinks groggily, and rolls over to see that it's only ten in the morning. She's only been asleep a few hours, and groans with irritation that she'd forgotten to put her phone on silent.

She pulls her phone from the bedside table and peers at it, sleepily brushing a strand of hair from her eyes.

All of the missed calls are from her sister.

Molly wrinkles her nose and closes her eyes, letting her head hit the pillow with a soft _thunk_. With one bleary eye open, she unlocks the screen and attempts to silence her notifications.

Several texts come in at once.

 **Molly, I'm sorry about yesterday, please answer. – MY**

 **I know you're mad at me, but if you're okay, PLEASE ANSWER. –MY**

 **I know you might be asleep, but please, PLEASE answer as soon as you get this. –MY**

 **I need to know you're okay. –MY**

At this, Molly sits upright in bed, brows furrowed in concern. Meghan might be an over-dramatic pain-in-the-arse most of the time, but this is not like her. She waits a few moments, but nothing else comes in. _Oh my gosh_ , Molly thinks. _No threats to call the police and file a missing persons report. No threats to call Aunt Nan. She's actually waiting for me to call back._ It's completely unnerving, and Molly would think something's happened to Meghan – except her texts explicitly ask if _Molly_ is okay.

This, of course, prompts Molly to swing her feet down onto the floor and shuffle into the living room to call her sister back. Toby raises his head from his spot on the sofa and opens one eye, before settling back to sleep. Molly flips the television on to see if there's been some sort of accident – or God forbid, attack – in London, to prompt her sister's uncharacteristic apology. She mutes the television, and dials her sister.

Meghan picks up after two rings. "Molly, thank _God_ ," she cries. "You're okay. You're fine. You _are_ fine?" She exhales loudly, and Molly can hear a distinctive _sniff_ on the other side of the line.

"Yeah, I'm fine, Meghan," Molly replies gently. "What's happened? Why were you so worried?"

Meghan laughs nervously. "You mean you don't _know_? It's on the news, Molly. There's been an explosion-"

And Molly is flipping through the stations, passing weather reports and commercials and children's morning programmes until she reaches a news station that is broadcasting what her sister is talking about.

The hand holding her phone to her ear falls into her lap, and her lips part, stunned.

Baker Street is in flames.

Well, not the whole street.

Just _one_ flat in particular.

221 Baker Street.

Goosebumps break out on her arms and neck, and for a moment, all she can hear is a slight buzzing sound, and then the shock wears off and she unmutes the television so that she can focus on what the reporter is saying.

"-at approximately eight this morning, an explosion occurred at 221 Baker Street, home of the famous consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes. As you can see, firefighters are still battling the blaze. At this time, only one victim has been reported. Sources tell us that a man meeting the detective this morning has been admitted to the hospital with life-threatening injuries, and remains in critical condition. We are unsure at this time of the identity of said man, or of the whereabouts of the detective and other resident of the home. Luckily, there seems to be no damage to adjoining-"

"-Molly? Molly! Are you there? Molly, I'm here, if you need to talk-"

Molly stares at the phone in her hand, her sister's voice calling her out of her reverie. She swallows, and brings the phone to her ear again.

"I'm – I'm sorry, Meghan. I'm going to have to call you back."

She barely hears Meghan's reply as she runs to her bedroom, throwing on clothing haphazardly and pulling her hair up into a ponytail. She pulls on her shoes and jacket and coat, and grabs her phone from where she's left it on the couch. She has one text message, from Meghan.

 **It's okay. Let me know what's happened. Love you. –MY**

Molly feels a rare, sudden rush of affection and gratitude for her big sister, and responds quickly before closing the door behind her, and making her way out into the world to discover what has happened to Baker Street and her friends.

 **Love you too. – MH**

* * *

"Come on, come on, _pick up_ , pick up!" Molly hisses into her phone.

She's tried Sherlock, first, of course – she didn't expect him to answer, but she _was_ hoping. She texts him, next, asking what happened, if he's all right, and if there's anything she can do.

John was next, but he didn't answer either. She texts him, worried, and when he doesn't respond – concern creeps up her from the pit of her stomach. Even when they're on a case, he'll usually text – and if there's something big, something like a _bloody_ _explosion at Baker Street_ – something that gets news coverage - he almost always sends some form of communication letting her know they're all right.

He doesn't, this time.

There's no guarantee, of course, that he was even _at_ Baker Street, but considering their request last evening, and the case they were working on last night – the anxiety creeps up her throat, now, and makes it difficult to leave a message.

"John, it's Molly. I've heard about Baker Street. Are you all right? Is Rosie all right? What – well, please, just let me know if you're okay. Just a text is fine if you're on a case. Thanks."

She tries Mrs. Hudson, next, and hope that she'd at least get through to the affectionate older woman bursts as she gets yet another voicemail box. She leaves a message and sends a text, and by then, she's reached Baker Street – or as close as she can get, with all of the traffic and onlookers from the explosion.

It takes her a few minutes, but she winds her way through the crowd until she reaches the blockade, manned by a police officer she hasn't met from Scotland Yard.

"Keep it clear, miss, keep it clear," he states, and she bites her lip.

"What happened?" She blurts, eyes darting about the scene before her. Smoke is billowing freely, now, and though a few flames are still smoldering, she can see the fire department has successfully put out most of the fire. Her heart sinks as she sees the gaping hole in the wall, where Sherlock's sitting room would be, and she blinks rapidly, though there are no tears – it's like she just can't believe what she's seeing, and if she blinks enough, the scene before her will revert to what it once was – how it _should_ be. She is grateful that it is Sunday, and that Speedy's is closed, because the windows to the shop have blown out, as well.

"'Sbeen an explosion," he explains monotonously. "Keep _back_ sir!" He barks at one man, who's leaning over the barricade in an attempt to record video of the event on his mobile.

Molly frowns. "Well, I know that, sir, but I'm Molly Hooper, I'm a friend of Sherlock's, and-"

The officer laughs in her face. "Sure you are, miss. Everyone's a friend of Sherlock Holmes when they're looking for a story. Behind the line, there's a good girl, and we'll make a statement soon enough – though I've heard tell from the higher ups that it's just a gas leak."

She takes a step back and presses her lips into a thin line. " _Gas leak my arse_ ," she mutters angrily, and turns on her heel. It was stupid to come here, anyway. As if Sherlock would just be hanging about, watching the blaze be put out. She checks her phone for any missed messages – _none_ – and calls Rosie's sitter, praying that someone will at least answer her there. She'll head to Scotland Yard, next, and hopefully Greg – or someone else who recognizes her – will be able to tell her what happened.

"Hello, Nina speaking."

"Nina!" Molly sighs in relief. "It's Molly. Molly Hooper, Rosie Watson's godmother? I've been round a few times to drop Rosie off or pick her up for John?"

"Yes, hello Ms. Hooper! How can I help you?"

"I was wondering – is Rosie there today?"

"Well, yes, she is. And a little ball of sunshine, too. Obviously feeling a lot better, now. Is there a problem?"

"Oh – nothing, nothing," Molly reassures her. "Just, um – I think I told John I'd pick Rosie up for him this evening, and I – I have to work," she lies.

"Oh, don't worry, dear. John told us we'd have Rosie the whole weekend, and possibly Monday as well. Probably has a lot of work to catch up on, after her being sick so long. We're glad to have her back."

"Oh, good, thank you," Molly answers distractedly, saying good-bye before hanging up.

 _At least Rosie is safe._

But she still knows absolutely nothing about Sherlock, John, or even Mrs. Hudson.

She supposes no news – and no bodies – are good news, but she's still worried and uneasy and can't shake the feeling that she may be the only one _left_ , to pick Rosie up on Monday.

She knew what she signed up for when becoming Rosie's godmother, but she never thought she'd be faced with a situation like _this_ , so suddenly. Though she still doesn't have any answers, she knows that probability indicates Sherlock, John, and Mrs. Hudson are at least alive, if not safe on some case somewhere – but it doesn't stop her from feeling very much alone at the moment.

* * *

Scotland Yard is bustling with activity, as always. Greg, at least, had responded to her text, and promised to meet her at the front desk as soon as he gets in.

She sits on a bench, and only has to wait ten minutes before he strides in, pitching an empty coffee cup into the rubbish bin next to the front desk. His eyes are dark and his face is drawn, and he runs a hand across the stubble on his chin.

Molly stands and offers him a quick hug, which he receives willingly. "How're you holding up?" He asks her, holding her at arm's length.

She frowns. "I'll be a lot better once someone can tell me what's going on with Sherlock and John."

"Wouldn't we all!" He lets out a short laugh at that, and gestures for her to follow him to his office. She quickens her steps to keep up with him, and he motions for her to sit, if she likes, once they reach the room.

"No thanks," she says, crossing her arms in front of her chest. "Just tell me what you know, Greg."

He sighs and shakes his head, pressing his palms onto his paper-cluttered desk. "Not bloody enough, I'll tell you that." He looks up and gives her a searching look. "What do you know?"

"Nothing!" She shrugs vehemently, picking at her jumper. "Absolutely nothing. They come to me at work last night, asking for pigs blood and telling me it relates to Mycroft, and possibly Moriarty, and that's the last I hear from them until this morning, when my sister calls in a tizzy because she thinks I've been blown up with Sherlock's flat. What do _you_ know? Are they all right? Is Mrs. Hudson all right? What's going on?"

Greg grimaces. "I don't know."

Molly looks up at him, stricken but unsurprised, and he sighs, returning her gaze for a moment. He then straightens and walks to the door, poking his head out to look around before shutting it carefully and coming back to lean against the edge of his desk. He crosses his arms, and studies the floor for a moment. "We're reporting it as a gas leak."

Molly snorts, and Greg's lips turn up a bit at the corners. "That's official, from higher up than I can ever hope of reaching. Unofficially?" He looks up at her, her brows drawn together, worried. "It was a bomb. On a drone. Very high-tech. Patience grenade, I've heard, though I wasn't supposed to hear that. But supposedly, it was altered? Didn't seem to do as much damage as the high-and-mighty brass thought it should've. Anyway, by the time we get there, no one's there but us first responders. Police, fire crew – no sign of them – Sherlock, John, Mrs. Hudson - no bodies – and that's something, isn't it? And then a big black car pulls up, and there's talk of Mycroft and that bomb, and the Yard is dismissed to blockade duty until further notice, and that's all I know."

Molly bites her lip. "Have you heard from Mrs. Hudson?"

Greg sighs, shaking his head. "No, and that's what worries me most. It isn't unlike Sherlock – or even John – to just disappear – but Mrs. Hudson – she'd usually let us know she's all right, wouldn't she?"

"What about Mycroft?" Molly's voice is low.

Greg exhales slowly. "There's reports – chatter – nothing confirmed – that a man matching his description was rushed to a hospital in critical condition-"

Molly sucks in breath –

"-but I can't seem to confirm that with _any_ hospital in the area. No John Does, no patients that arrived this morning with critical injuries matching an explosion – nothing." He scowls at the blinking light on the phone on his desk, signaling he's got messages – and lots of them.

They stand in silence for a moment, both working through things in their minds.

"You think he's faked it, then?" Molly asks softly.

"Mycroft?"

Molly nods.

Greg runs a hand through his hair again, and it's been too long since he's gotten a trim, because little bits of it stay sticking out at funny angles. "I _want_ to say yes – that he leaked a false report about himself being in hospital - but it's not like him, to be so half-arsed about it, is it? I mean, if it was him – if it was part of a plan of his all along-"

"-there'd be an unrecognizable body somewhere in hospital, and not just a report floating about?" Molly finishes his thought, agreeing with him.

"Something's off, and I don't like it," Greg says, and his voice is low.

"So you've heard nothing about John and Sherlock, either?" Molly asks again, because she has to be _sure_.

"Nothing. Sorry, Molly." Greg looks at her apologetically.

"Not your fault." Molly offers him a sideways smile.

They are interrupted by a knock at the door, and a Sergeant pokes his head in. "Sorry to interrupt, Inspector, but we've got a call about a death on Hill Street. Looks to be routine, but need you there."

"Got it. Be ready to go in five." Greg steps away from his desk and places his hands in his pockets, looking her up and down. "You all right?"

Molly sighs. "Yeah. I'll keep trying to get ahold of one of them. Rosie's fine for now, at her usual sitter's. Thanks, Greg."

"Anytime, Molly. Call me if you hear anything. D'you want a ride? You live on Hill, don't you?" He holds the door open for her, and shuts is as they exit.

"No, thanks," Molly says politely. "It's a long street, and it's probably nowhere near my place. I could use a walk to clear my head."

"Right. Be safe, then, yeah?"

She nods, and they go their separate ways.

* * *

She was hoping her conversation with Greg would be more reassuring, but she is left feeling more anxious and helpless than she was before – and if she's being honest, she's starting to get angry.

As she walks toward home, she tries all three of them again – Sherlock, John, and Mrs. Hudson. Once again, she is met with the voicemail message for all three. She stops at St. James Park, because despite being a pretty bloody awful day so far, it's quite nice out. She absent-mindedly places her hands in the pockets of her jacket as she sits on a bench for a rest, and her fingers close around a business card.

Pulling it out, she realizes it's the card Sherlock gave her, all those weeks ago, with a number to call if she needed help in procuring an ambulance. It had been a number she'd assumed was somehow linked to Mycroft and his resources, and - because what could it hurt? – she dials the number.

A nondescript voice answers, and she asks after Mycroft, and mentions Sherlock. Thus begins a very frustrating twenty minute phone relay, in which she is transferred and placed on hold and given new numbers to call numerous times and tells several different white lies in an attempt to find out _any_ information at all.

She finally reaches a woman who _claims_ to be Mycroft's personal secretary. "Hello," the woman states, voice all business, absent of the careful politeness that Molly remembers from her last interaction with her.

"Hello," Molly says, sitting up a bit straighter. "My name is Moll-"

"Molly Hooper, yes, I am familiar." Her even voice gives no inclination as to the opinion the speaker holds on her.

"Um – right. Right," Molly knows the woman can't see her, but she straightens visibly, and smooths her free hand on her trousers. "I'm calling in regard to Mycroft, and Sherlock." There is silence on the other end of the line, and so she continues. "I've seen what's happened to Baker Street, and Sherlock came to me last night asking for help with a case involving Moriarty – and Mycroft – and now I'm hearing that Mycroft's been injured, but I can't seem to find out where he's been taken. I'd like – I'd like to visit him, if possible."

"I'm sorry, that information is classified."

"Look, y- he knows me! Mycroft knows me! I'm Sherlock's friend, I helped with – with Operation Lazarus – I need – please – just - tell me if they're all right. Is John all right? I'm his daughter's godmother – and – Mrs. Hudson? Where is she?"

"Please hold." The woman's voice drawls.

Molly bunches the fabric of her jacket in her fist as she waits for a response. In just a few moments, she hears the line pick up, and a new woman is on the line.

"Molly Hooper?" This voice is more familiar, and more friendly, now.

"Yes?" Molly asks, sitting on the edge of the bench.

"It's Anthea."

"Anthea!" Molly sighs with relief. She remembers the name, and the woman, from Sherlock's fall. She trusts her, and knows she'll get some sort of answer, even if it's not exactly what she wants to hear. "Anthea, can you tell me-"

"Molly," Anthea interrupts firmly, but her voice is kind. "You know we have highly valued your assistance in the past. You are an irreplaceable part of Sherlock's team. However, your involvement in current events would be unnecessary and poses a security risk that Mycroft is unwilling to take at this time. The Holmes brothers, and Dr. Watson, thank you for your concern, and reassure you that everything is taken care of at this time."

It savors strongly of a politically correct platitude, and Molly thinks she's beginning to truly understand how John felt, when he found out he'd been excluded from Sherlock's Lazarus plan. She is satisfied that they are alive and on a case, but she can't help but ask –

"Mrs. Hudson? Is – is she-?"

"Martha Hudson is alive and well, and suffered no injuries from the explosion caused by the gas leak. Her phone, however, is unavailable to her, due to the blast. She is currently visiting a Mr. Abernathy, and that is all I can tell you at this time."

Molly sighs, but she's not sure if it's with relief or frustration. "Thank you-" she begins, but is interrupted.

"And Ms. Hooper? I'm sorry, but – please refrain from mentioning Operation Lazarus in the future. I understand you are worried about your friends, but it is imperative you do not mention it again."

There is a pause, and Molly's face is red with embarrassment at being chastised for her slip. "I understand," she whispers.

"Thank you. And I must insist that you please refrain from contacting Mycroft, Sherlock, or Dr. Watson further. Their case is a sensitive one, and it would not do to disturb them. They will contact you when they are ready, if at all."

"Right," Molly says, not bothering to hide the bitter note in her voice. "But – Moriarty?"

"You know very well he is dead, thanks to your help, Ms. Hooper. I assure you, your friends are not in danger from him, wherever they may be – and neither are you. And now, if you'll excuse me-"

"Thank you, Anthea."

They are disconnected, and Molly stares at her phone for a moment. A variety of emotions flicker across her face – anger, hurt, relief, resignation – and she presses her lips together in a thin line. She places a quick call to Greg and leaves a message that their friends are alive – _all_ of them, she emphasizes, though she doesn't name them, specifically – and that they are on a case, and that is all she's managed to discover.

She runs her thumb across the number on the card before stuffing it back into her pocket, along with her phone.

It's a long walk home, and she tires of it before she even gets halfway.

* * *

As the cab she hailed to finish the trip home draws closer to her flat, traffic gets worse. Her stomach sinks as she sees the ambulance and police cars in the distance, parked just a few doors past her own.

 _Mr. Girard,_ she thinks sadly, and pays the cabbie to let her out. She walks the last block to her door, and sees them loading the body bag into the ambulance. Greg must still be inside, or perhaps it was so cut-and-dry that he's left already, because she doesn't recognize any of the officers around as him. She thinks that perhaps she should go down to see if Trish is there, to offer some comfort – surely if her grandfather took a sudden turn, she'd have stayed? - but decides against it. She's in no mood to offer sympathy and she could really, _really_ use a cup of tea, right about now.

She can always send a gifts basket later.

And so, she locks the door behind her, and lines her shoes up neatly beside the door, and hangs her jacket up in the front closet. Toby comes running out of the back bedroom to greet her, and she pats him affectionately on the head and gives him a treat.

She's just put the kettle on and taken out an orange to cut, to go with it, when her phone rings from her coat pocket, and she nearly trips over herself to reach it, hoping it's someone – _anyone_ – from Baker Street.

It's her sister.

Molly closes her eyes and answers. "Hello?"

"Hi, Molly," Meghan says, and her voice is subdued. "I'm sorry to hear about your friend. They're saying a man's been admitted to hospital? In critical condition?"

Molly stares ahead for moment, face unreadable. She thinks that perhaps the _worst_ thing about being involved with the Holmes' men is the lying – lying for them, lying about them, lying to others to try to find out what's happened to them – _lying to herself about the intensity of her feelings for one, in particular._

But Meghan isn't exactly the person she'd want to share her secrets with, anyway, and so she lies, once again, for them. "Not Sherlock – or John. A client."

"Oh, that's – still too bad, but – good, as well?" Meghan tries carefully.

"Yes," Molly agrees tiredly. "It's good."

"So what happened?"

Molly sighs. "They're reporting it as a gas leak."

Meghan pauses for a moment, and Molly smiles, just a bit, because she can imagine the completely incredulous look on her sister's face, and for once – it's nice to think of it as directed at someone other than herself. When Meghan speaks next, her voice is even but cynical. "Mmm. Seems to be an awful lot of gas leaks on that street. You'd think city planning would have something to say about that, by now."

Molly laughs. "You'd think, wouldn't you?" she agrees.

Meghan sighs. "Well, I'm glad they're all right. How long did it take you to contact them? It's been a while since I talked to you, this morning. Do they need anything? The baby wasn't there, was she?"

The kettle goes off, and Molly moves to remove it from the stove. "Um, no – I mean – Rosie wasn't there, she's fine, and – I'm sure they don't need anything." She tries to avoid admitting that she hasn't actually spoken to any of them, but Meghan is having none of that.

"What do you mean, you're 'sure they don't need anything'? It destroyed half the flat! Didn't you talk to them about it?"

Molly turns and stares blankly at her sofa, and her silence is enough of an answer for her sister.

" _Damn,_ Molly. You mean they didn't call you? They didn't – you didn't get to talk to them? And yet you know they're all right? How'd you find that out – _please_ tell me the git didn't just text you. Or did he not even give you _that_ courtesy? Sherlock have a secretary or something now? Someone passing on messages – 'oh, they're fine, can't be bothered to return your call, but they're bloody _fine_.'? For being such good _friends_ – _Molly_ – that's pretty _bloody_ low of them." Meghan's voice is seething with anger.

And Molly has nothing to say to that, because it's true.

But, as always, Meghan has to take it one too far. "At least _Tom_ would've had the decency to call you himself if his flat bloody _blew up_."

Molly draws in a sharp intake of breath, and Meghan is unapologetic. "It's true," she protests – "and you know it, Molly."

Molly lets out a short bark of laughter. "If Tom's flat blew up, I doubt he'd be _alive_ to call me himself. But thank you, once again, Meghan, for mixing compassion and condescension. You do that _so well._ "

There is silence for a moment, and then Meghan replies, tetchily. "You're stressed, Molly, and understandably so. I'm going to pretend I didn't just hear that. You take a bath, or have a nice cuppa, or take a nap, or whatever it is you need to do to relax. And when you're ready, we can talk about why you're redirecting all your anger at _me_ , instead of who really deserves it."

And Molly is met with the silence of an abruptly ended call. "Well," she mutters to herself. "I can't argue with that, can I?" She sets her phone on the counter and turns, crossing the room to the sink, staring out the window at the lovely day that depicts the polar opposite of what she's feeling. She runs her hands over the edge where the counter meets the cool metal surface. And then Molly Hooper bows her head over the sink, and cries.

* * *

Her phone rings again not fifteen minutes later, and she lifts her head from her hands at the sink, sniffs, and turns to see who it is.

 _Sherlock_ , the phone screen states proudly – _Sherlock._

And yet – _don't waste your time._

 _Don't disturb them._

 _They'll call_ _ **you,**_ _when the time is right_.

 _If at all._

The words should be easy to forget, but the feelings attached to them – not so much.

She knows it's childish, but she crosses the floor to her orange instead of answering, and begins slicing.

 _See how he likes it, being ignored. Only responding when it's convenient for him._

She'll be all right by tomorrow, ready to forgive him and hear all about this mysterious case. She'll call them out for worrying her, and then she'll hear from Sherlock, and mostly John, just exactly why no one could call and let her know that they were all alive and that she didn't need to start moving Rosie into her flat. There'll be excuses and reasons, and she's sure they will be good ones - but for now – she wants to nurse her wounds in private.

Her shoulders sag in relief when the call disconnects, and then tense again, immediately, when it rings again. She takes her frustration out on the orange slice, squeezing it mercilessly into a teacup beside the cutting board, but it only lasts a moment before she dries her fingers on a towel and stares at the phone's caller ID, again.

 _Sherlock._

He doesn't call often, and he _never_ calls twice.

Something unwanted has settled, hard and uneasy, in her stomach. She considers ignoring this call, as well.

But it's _Sherlock._

Taking a fortifying breath, she answers.

"Hello, Sherlock, is this urgent – 'cause I'm not having a good day." She hopes he can hear the tired, pointed sarcasm in her voice. She's about to continue – tell him exactly _why_ her day has been Not Good, and what she thinks about his cases and games making it that way – but he doesn't give her the chance.

"Molly," he states rapidly, and she can tell from his voice that wherever he is, the game is still on. "I just want you to do something very easy for me, and not ask why."

And her anger spikes, just a bit. Of _course_ he wants something – and that something includes her unquestioning cooperation, and there's only about a fifty percent chance that it will actually be _easy._ She recalls the pig's blood, and his attempted theft of her clothing. "Is this one of your stupid games?"

"No, it's not a game. I…need you to help me."

She swallows, moving to stare dejectedly down at the tea things in front of her. "I'm not at the lab."

"It's not about that." It's like he can barely wait for her to finish her sentence before jumping on top of her words with his own.

She fiddles with some things on the counter, restless, waiting for him to get on with it so that she can do what needs to be done, yet again - be his lifeguard, pull him out of whatever it is he's gotten himself into. "Well, quickly then."

For how rushed he sounded seconds ago, he is silent now. "Sherlock? What is it? What do you want?" She can't hide the frustration in her voice.

"Molly, please – without asking why, just say these words."

And her brows draw together, just a bit – and her mouth tugs up at the corners with curiosity – because this is new. _Perhaps she got lucky, and this will be an easy one._ "What words?"

"I love you."

Her face drops in shock, and she stares at the phone in her hand.

Her finger moves automatically to disconnect the call, hovering over the button, recalling his calloused attitude about love in the morgue, yesterday, parroting the rubbish Mycroft always tells him. Did it spark some sort of morbid curiosity in him, curiosity that couldn't be satisfied until he'd called to ask her that while on his _case_ – one so important he couldn't bother to let her know he'd survived his flat being bombed?

She pictures him, waiting for some vital part of the case that requires patience he's run out of, boredom driving him to call her about _this_.

"Leave me alone," she says, and the tears come back.

 _She's been hiding in it, for so long – content and comfortable, blanketed in their friendship. She's wrapped it around herself and used it to hide her true feelings – that burning, brilliant part of her heart that is his, held closest to her very soul - and over time, she's even been able to ignore those feelings herself, fairly easily. Because she loves him, of course she does – friends love each other, don't they? She's just – being a good, loving friend. It's what she's told herself as she saved specimens for him in the lab, and washed his clothes before putting them in the spare drawer at her place, and helping with his 'plan' to save his friendship with John. It's what she's told herself when she'd come home from her shift and he'd be sleeping in her bed. She's comforted herself with the white lie that this is what friends_ _ **do**_ _, when she'd come home and Toby was fed and there were dirty cups in the sink. And he's eaten it up – he's been very happy to take what she's given him under the guise of being friends. Their friendship has sheltered her, protected her – allowed her love to grow, relatively unhindered - and now – now, for some unknown, godforsaken reason, he wants to rip it away. He wants to reveal the biggest, most brilliantly sensitive part of her heart, and she loves him – but she doesn't trust him, not with this. She'll trust him with_ _ **anything**_ _but this._

But then he's – he's almost _shouting_ at her – "Molly, no _,_ _please_ no – don't hang up! Do _not_ hang up!"

Something in his voice makes her pause, and she brings the phone back to her ear. "Why are you doing this to me?" She takes a shaky breath in. "Why are you making fun of me?"

 _Because that's what it is, it has to be. Why on earth would he need to hear her say that? And why her? He could call any woman – Mrs. Hudson, his mother – and they'd probably say it easily – he could call any bloody woman in London - hell, he could probably call Janine and she'd laugh at him for it, but still, she'd say it -_

"Please, I swear, you just have to listen to me." He sounds…not okay – but it's so hard to tell if it's _real,_ when it's just his voice – when she can't _see_ him.

"Molly, this is for a case. It's ... it's a sort of experiment." He is patronizing her. She's heard that forced calm, that forced patience before – it's just – this is the first time it's been directed at _her_ in ages.

And the unwanted thing in her chest grows harder and colder, and so does her voice. "I'm not an _experiment_ , Sherlock."

"No, I know you're not an experiment," he rushes to correct himself, and she frowns. "You're my friend. We're friends."

 _And his voice, in that instant, makes her heart flutter –_

"But ... please. Just ... say those words for me." His voice is stronger, now – forceful.

 _She doesn't really know what she's feeling at the moment, because it's all mixed together in one awful emotional soup._

"Please don't do this. Just ... just ... don't do it."

 _She doesn't ask for much. She's never asked him for much. But she's asking something very simple from him, now._

"It's _very_ important. I can't say why, but I promise you it is." He sounds sincere – but – why wouldn't he say _why_ , unless it's for a reason he _knows_ she'll disapprove of?

 _It was 'important' to interrupt her autopsy for blood and steal her emergency clothes, as well, and to have her bedroom because he needed the space, and to keep his secret from John after he fell – and she's tired of doing things just because_ _ **he**_ _says they're important._

"I can't say that. I can't ... I can't _say_ that to you." Her voice breaks, and she shakes her head, just a bit, even though she knows he can't see her.

"Of _course_ you can. _Why_ can't you?" He sounds cold and confused and…desperate?

 _She's not surrendering this battle so easily, because she's told so many lies for him – but her undoing will be in telling him the_ _ **truth –**_ _this truth._

"You _know_ why."

"No, I _don't_ know why." Sherlock's voice is tremulous, and he sounds stubborn and almost – angry, now.

 _It may have been obvious to everyone else, but it's been a secret to him. A secret she clutches closely to her herself, and is unwilling to let go, though she feels her resolve slipping._

 _"_ Of course you do." She sniffs in frustration, pressing her hand to the countertop. She is pleading with him, but her voice matches his.

"Please, just say it."

 _All the 'pleases' in the world won't make her say it, unless she decides it's important enough to potentially loose their friendship over._

 _Because - if she admits this to him, it might be all he sees in her, from now on. He'll look at her and instead of seeing a friend – a strong, clever, faithful friend – he will see a woman so desperate for his love that she's risked her career and relationships to please him._

 _She will be a chemical defect, found on the losing side._

"I can't. Not to you."

"Why?" It's one hard little word, but it hits her like a gust of wind, and the comforting blanket of their friendship falls a little looser on the shoulders of her soul.

"Because ..." Molly looks down at the counter. "Because it's…"

 _She lets the security of their friendship, their easy camaraderie, fall away, and she is exposed, before him._

 _"_... because it's… _true_."

There is silence on the other end, and she dreads what revealing this will do to him. To her. To them.

She is almost whispering now. "Because ... it's ..." she gasps, and her efforts not to cry have failed " …true."

His name leaves her lips as a sob. "Sherlock. It's _always_ been true."

 _The heart of her is barren before the man she loves, though she still clutches it, and those three words he's asking her to say, tightly to her chest._

"Well, if it's true, just say it anyway." He's using his _logic_ voice – the cold, factual voice he uses when deducing crime scenes – and he's using it on _her_.

 _She hates how he's making her feel like_ _ **she's**_ _the one being stupid, when he's just altered their relationship in the span of two minutes, and for what? For_ _ **what**_ _?_

She laughs, short and disbelieving. "You bastard."

"Say it anyway." He's commanding her, now – but –

 _He's laid her bare, and she wants them on equal ground. She wants him to understand that this is bigger and heavier than finding a body that looks like his or bringing an ambulance to a mystery house – it's almost as heavy as lying to John for two years._

 _And she knows how to make him understand just what he's asking of her._

" _You_ say it. Go on. You say it first."

 _She's not asking him for anything other than what he's asking of her. In fact, for the first time, she's asking for a sacrifice, from him, of equal value. He wants an experiment? Fine. He can be the control._

"What?" He can't believe it, and she knows she's won.

"Say it." She lowers her voice. "Say it like you mean it."

 _Because she'll mean it – and now they both have to live with that._

" I-I ..."

 _It surprises her that he tries, immediately._

 _"_ I love you."

 _It's painful and forced, but he's done what she's asked –he's thrust the words, roughly, into her hands, and she accepts them, because she knows they're at least partly true, even if they're pulled from him unwillingly, even if they're not meant the way she means them, the way -_

"I love you."

 _It is the second one that twists her face in pain, causing her to pull the phone from her face and wish desperately that she could see his, because it is the second one that breathes life into the thing in her hands, and – and -_

"Molly?" He asks.

 _\- and if he's acting, he's putting on the best show she's ever heard. And if he's this desperate to make her say it – she'll give it to him._

"Molly, _please_."

 _And so she cradles the phone to her lips, so close it's as though she's breathing the words onto his skin -_

"I love you."

- _and she releases, reluctantly, on those three words, that part of her heart to the only man for whom those words have been fully, completely true -_

And there is the loud and deafening silence of a call disconnected.

 _-but there is no one there to receive it, and she watches, humiliated and miserable, as it falls before her._

The highlighted portion of his name is red on the screen of her phone.

 _She stares at what he's given her, in place of it, and cannot tell if it is genuine or a cheap imitation meant to placate her._

She closes her eyes and breathes.

 _I love you._

Funny how winning feels an awful lot like losing, with Sherlock.

* * *

 **A/N: Thank you so much for reading, and follows, favorites, and reviews are love! I squee with excitement when I see those little counters move up. A huge thank you to the anonymous reviewers. I cannot respond to you in person, so I respond to you now: You make me smile and inspire me. Thank you for your encouragement!**

 **Next chapter will include more Eurus, the call from Sherlock's point of view, and I will also attempt to fill in the plot holes that lead Greg and the calvary to Musgrave.**


	7. Rebel Heart

**Rebel Heart**

"… _because – it's true. It's always been true."_

-Molly, "The Final Problem"

* * *

The thing is, they've gotten it wrong.

All of them.

They think she is mad, or devoid of emotion, or unable to feel it.

She feels.

(She feels, very much, but it's been a long time since she's felt anything but the numbness of _alone_.)

She simply chooses to remove herself from it.

(She's too good at removing herself from it – and not good enough. She will never be good enough to forget what it feels like to be ignored and unwanted and forgotten.)

 _Happiness is a pop song, sadness is a poem._

Songs can be turned on and off. Poems can be memorized and then shut away.

(In fact, she's so far distanced from her own emotions that she's left them behind on the ground, and she's not sure she can ever find them again.)

She realizes that everyone – every human on earth, sane or otherwise, high IQ or low, educated or not – every human spends the majority of their lives computing. Every human, computer-like brain works round the clock, analyzing data, organizing facts – everyone has that subconscious awareness that keeps people continually adapting and reacting in calculated ways, based off of culture or body language or thousands of other tiny little nuances that very few people ever pay attention to.*

But she knows that every once in awhile, in moments of intense stress or unbridled relief or unexpected sorrow – every once in awhile, people forget to _compute_ and simply _react._

It is in those moments that a person is stripped down to their base layer – who they are – pure, and unfiltered.

They forget the image they want to present to the world, and instead, become who they _really_ are.

(She knows who her brother _really is._ She needs him to see it, too.)

Eurus Holmes has the uncanny ability to strip who _she_ is away from her own mind. She can analyze herself, her reactions, her _emotions_ in real time, and free herself from them.

It started with the assessments.

Question after pointless question, asked to determine the depth and breadth of her intelligence, spanning everything from math and physics to literature and socio-cultural intelligence.

That was when she'd realized it made no difference.

She knew the answers to every moral question. She knew what they wanted to hear, and she told them, but she could tell that most of them didn't even follow the rules they were asking her about. Adulterers, thieves, liars – every interviewer had some vice that instantly turned them to hypocrites.

Even Mummy.

 _Take your sister, William. She wants to play, too._

And he's _said_ he would play with her, but he wouldn't play, and when she told her mother –

 _Stop pestering your brother when he's with his friend, dear. Play by yourself for a little while._

It made her angry and jealous and she bit her lip until it bled.

She didn't want to feel that way again, and so – she thought to remove the _thing_ that made her angry and jealous, the _thing_ that distracted her brother and made him cross at her. She'd even turned it in to a game, for them all to play. A treasure hunt – a game of hide and seek.

But he _still_ didn't understand. He _still_ didn't want to play with her, and so – she thought – there must be something else she was missing.

But it was too hard to concentrate when she was feeling annoying things like _anger_ and _jealousy_ and _loneliness._

So she told herself that she wasn't _really_ feeling those things – it was just her body _tricking_ her – and after a little practice, it got easier and easier to pretend they didn't exist at all.

She was _free_ from having tedious things like _feelings_ control her actions.

And then they took her away, and since then, she's spent every waking moment with other _people_ trying to enlighten them, as well.

Set them free.

She is free.

(She has never been free.)

She is in control.

She is _free_.

She might be trapped in a prison cell (temporarily, of course – always temporarily, because there's never been anything she's been unable to free herself from – except _one_ thing) – she might be trapped in a prison cell, but she is _free_.

She is not, and never has been, a _prisoner of her own meat._

(Instead, she's a prisoner of her own _mind_.)

No – she's **not** ** _._** _Haven't you been listening?_ She's _free._

(She insists upon it, so it must be so.)

And she's been trying to set others free for years, though most of them are too stupid to see it. So, like a scientist would with any experiment – she disposes of the failures and begins again.

Doctor Taylor – he was one of the many she'd tried with, until she realized just how _flawed_ he was.

He and his whole family – liars and cheaters and endlessly defective, the lot of them. So she'd very kindly suggested he kill himself, and his family, and take them all out of their misery. They'd had so many problems, so many unfortunate problems – it had been better, more _beautiful_ to just remove them from this life and keep them from contributing to the collective gene pool of the world.

She tells them all what they want to hear until her logic is _all_ they can hear.

 _Good and bad are fairytales._

And then, years and years later, after a visit from a delightfully brilliant man named Jim who _gets_ it, almost as much as she does - she is _truly_ free. She can come and go from Sherrinford as she pleases, and for the first time in a long time, she feels something other than _alone_.

It's a bit like observing a hive of bees, or a colony of ants. She's fascinated by the world's culture – its way of communicating, all its funny little rules and lines that _must not be crossed_ , lest society implode and the world end. She spends several days watching people – noting actions and reactions and feelings – and she finds herself smiling for the first time since before all of the _assessments_ , when she was a little girl.

She distances herself from it immediately, because she doesn't trust it – this vague feeling of something other than numbness and boredom.

And she finds herself frowning mildly again, because as she _watches_ , more and more – she realizes that there is an awful lot of gray in her previously black-and-white world.

And she finds Sherlock and his friends, and inserts herself clandestinely into their lives, because it is interesting to her that he seems to be able to analyze the data in his life while maintaining an unwilling connection to his emotions – a connection that he can apparently repress at will, and then _reconnect again._

Her confusion lies in the fact that he connects again at all.

Why connect with people who will never understand him, not like she does?

(And more importantly – why did he never connect with _her_?)

Her original plan, with lovely, entertaining Jim, was to test her brother – to see what made him tick; to try to observe, without directly interfering in events (because Mycroft – dull, oppressive old Mycroft – had told her Sherlock didn't remember her, and so she musn't interfere; she musn't affect the results of her experiment). She wanted to see _how_ he did it – how he could outsmart the world, and still be… _not alone._

Not like her, and not like Mycroft.

But – well, he _cheated,_ didn't he?

He was never _alone_ to begin with.

She'd tried to strip him of his support – Jim had targeted John, and the Hudson woman, and the Detective Inspector – and she'd helped him to instigate the media, so that Sherlock's popularity, acceptance, and general positive reputation would be destroyed.

Mycroft couldn't fully help Sherlock when it played out – not in the ways that _truly_ counted - because he'd been the one to bring Jim to her in the first place, and anyways – she knew from experience that their eldest brother could never be relied on for _emotional assistance._

But Jim had failed, in one regard.

He'd missed _her._

(That's what Eurus got for not doing it _herself._ )

That strangely dedicated woman – unremarkable in every way - except for her complete, unfailing attentiveness to the life and well-being of Sherlock Holmes:

Doctor Molly Hooper.

Sherlock was never _alone_ , and so her experiment was a complete failure. A waste of time and energy. And she'd had to start again – waiting and watching, and he'd sort of begun, on his own – to realize the value and importance of emotion.

(Because you can't _beat_ something until you acknowledge that it _exists_ and is _important_.)

And he'd gone and hurt himself in the process – he'd gone and impaled himself on his little collection of broken people – poor thing, floundering around in the mess she (admittedly) helped him make - and so, she decides to _help_ him, again.

 _Helping someone is the best way to help yourself._

She's found that the best lies always contain just enough truth to make them go down easily.

(Even for her. _Especially_ for her.)

So she's going to help him, and then he will _have_ to help her.

(She's always needed his help. She still does.)

She's been planning _this_ one for a long time.

She'll not make the mistake of having such a thing as a _partner_ , again.

She'll utilize her worker bees like the queen of reason that she is.

She will make Sherlock _feel_ again, and then _break_ him from them – those complicated little emotions that tie his life like so many strings to the broken little people around him.

There is a slight problem – one that her experiment will address is a timely fashion.

He has pretended for so long that he does not have emotions, that he is unaffected by his body's physical reactions to emotional stimuli - that even now, after growing _so much_ since Doctor Hooper helped him - he is unaware of the very real significance his emotions have on him. The truth is, his emotions are entirely significant predictors of his actions in life.

Look at Mrs. Hudson – he repeatedly threw an American agent out of a second-story window simply because she got roughed-up a bit. Look at Doctor Watson – just like with Victor, Sherlock has made an (mostly) unconscious effort to change so many little habits – _drugs, smoking, avoidance of major social events_ – to make room for his _best friend_. Look at Molly, and the _extraordinary_ humanity he exhibits around that woman – _putting dishes away, feeding her cat, wiping his shoes, visitng gravesites –_ simply to stay in her favor.

His emotions, consciously or not, are an important part of _who he is._ What - and more importantly, _who_ \- make him feel said emotions are the key to helping him understand just how dependent his actions are on them. He has to acknowledge the _importance_ of emotions before she can break him of them.

He will be _free,_ just like her.

They will be free together, and then – she won't be alone, anymore.

(She has not acknowledged this truth, but still, it remains - she needs her brother, but she doesn't need the machine he's made himself out to be. She needs her brother, _the pirate_. She needs her brother, _the best man._ She needs her brother – the man who knows what it means to _love_ and _be loved_.)

* * *

"You think it's a trick. You're so unsure. You're not used to being unsure, are you?" Eurus asks, her voice gentle and somewhat amused, holding her hand up to empty space that her darling brother hasn't realized is simply _empty space._

She is pleased, _incredibly_ pleased with how well her experiment is progressing, this time around.

"It's more common than you'd think," Sherlock mutters.

It's strange, the _feeling_ she gets with him.

 _Not alone_ , her mind sings. _Not alone,_ her heart beats.

Or maybe it's the rush from a successful start to her experiment.

Either way, it's the best day she's had in _ages._

"Look at you," she says affectionately, as he raises his hand to meet hers. Her words are languid and easy, and yet – pointed. "The man who sees through everything, is _exactly_ the man who doesn't notice -" She presses her palm to his and entwines their fingers, and she can feel his pulse increase as she lets out a startled little gasp – "when there's nothing to see _through_."

As they continue their short conversation, (and as the feral, angry part of her escapes and strangles him) - she relishes in the fact that it's not just the nonexistent glass he's failed to see through.

He's lived his entire _life_ , since her, with the idea that he's created a wall between his mind and heart – a whole palace to guard his thoughts, with intricate mazes designed to keep them far from that more emotional organ. He _thinks_ there are walls there – but there aren't. He's been very good at ignoring what's been _right_ in front of him the entire time.

There _is_ no barrier, and it should be _obvious_ , what with all the people he's muttered too while supposedly in his little _mind palace –_ all those people who've been undeterred by his supposed unsociable attitude, who've managed to infiltrate his mind and heart and make a place there, for themselves.

The housekeeper.

The inspector.

The doctor.

The assassin.

The _Woman._

The _other_ doctor – the little one. The woman one. _That_ particular woman is the one that fascinates Eurus the most, because Sherlock allows himself to be most _transparent_ with her.

Which is why she's _so_ excited to see how he reacts to the little test she's provided for him. He can't be both _transparent_ for the girl and _guarded_ for his friend and brother. He'll have to choose.

And it will hurt him, but – pain is the predecessor to great beauty, is it not?

* * *

She's a bit breathless, a bit giddy at her ruse – going between being the girl on the plane and her present-day self. She's been playing this game since she was five, of course – but now there's an audience and potential playmates, and it's _different._

"Poor little thing. Alone in the sky in a great big plane with nowhere to land. But where in the world is she? It's a clever little puzzle. If you want to apply yourself to it, I can reconnect you."

By the time she's done with him, he's going to _want_ to play with her, more than anything else in the whole wide world.

He'll have nothing left to play with, besides her.

(Something tells her it's not a fair choice, and it's not a scientifically sound principle – it's altering the integrity of the experiment to _force_ the outcome she desires – but she ignores it.)

All she's ever _wanted_ was for him to choose _her._

* * *

Greg Lestrade frowns at the file before him, back at Scotland Yard. The Girard case lies open before him, and something doesn't fit. Something isn't _right._

Girard was murdered. Strangled in his own home, though by the looks of it, he wasn't long for the world anyway.

But the fact that the portly old man was shoved indelicately into a rather tight fit for him reminds him of a conversation he'd overheard, day before.

"Airing cupboard…" he mutters.

After a moment, he sighs and picks up the phone on his desk. "Peters," he greets the Detective Inspector as she picks up. "Peters – tell me about the murder yesterday on Thurlow. I think I've got a connection, but I'm not sure."

* * *

Mycroft makes Eurus _angry_.

It's a very mild anger – more disgust, than anything - it doesn't cause her to tremble or narrow her eyes or furrow her brow – but it does make her angry.

He doesn't want to play.

He's _always_ refused to play.

She's witnessed Sherlock and John's teamwork in the Garrideb room and her eldest brother's complete refusal to cooperate in any tasks so far, and it makes her nearly _boil_ when she hears him next.

"She's about to fly over a city in a pilotless plane. We'll have to talk her through it."

Doctor Watson glances at him, confused. "Through what?"

Mycroft answers quietly, his voice barely understandable through the speakers in the room with them. "Getting the plane away from the mainland, any populated areas. It _has_ to crash in the sea."

Doctor Watson's mouth drops open. "Wha – what about the girl?"

"Well, obviously, Doctor Watson, _she's_ the one who's going to crash it." Mycroft hisses in response.

She clenches the remote in her hand so furiously she hears the plastic casing begin to crack.

 _He wants to crash her into the sea. He wants her to crash_ _ **herself**_ _into the sea._

 _Rubbish older brother._

And yet, there is Sherlock – still attempting to connect with her, still making an _effort_.

 _He will be able to help her._

She just has to remove all the cling-ons, first.

* * *

 _As I understand it, Sherlock, you try to repress your emotions to refine your reasoning. I'd like to see how that works._

His sister's words ring in his ears, and he can't shake them. Not with the Governor, not with the Garridebs, and not now – not with this coffin before him.

Because she _knows._

'You _try_ to repress your emotions.' Not that he doesn't experience them – not that he distances himself from them – but the he _tries_ to repress them. _Trying_ implies that there is failure, as well as success.

It becomes clear that she _wants_ him to feel. She _wants_ him to fail at repressing his emotions so that she can see how he reacts. He is at a loss as to w _hy_ she wants to break him so completely, strip him away to his baser, more human parts – but that appears to be her end game.

It affected him – the governor, the three brothers – and he has no doubt that _this_ one will affect him, too – but he won't give her the satisfaction of seeing just _how much._

But then –

It's for _Molly_.

He closes his eyes and draws in a breath, and it _hurts_ to breathe.

The sign – the sign from Eurus's cell, earlier – MAINTAIN DISTANCE – flashes through his mind as a warning.

Somewhere, in the back of his consciousness, his brilliant mind begins observe the facts at what all of this _means_ – to collect what his physical, mental, and emotional reactions to Molly's endangerment mean – but he's so focused on getting her _out_ of danger that he doesn't have the ability to _shut it off_ and shove it away.

And he swallows it all down, and he will play Eurus's game – as long as it means Molly will live. As long as she lives, he thinks – as long as he saves her – then it will be okay.

Because surely, nothing – _nothing_ in this world can hurt as much as her _dying_ because of him _._

 **Fact 1: Molly's death would hurt him as much – if not more – than Mary's did.**

He's lost from the get-go, though he doesn't see it.

"What is she _doing_?" He asks, stress causing his voice to crack with irritation.

"She's making tea," his brother drawls patiently behind him. It's the voice Mycroft uses when he means to be soothing, but it's anything but.

"Yes, but why isn't she answering her phone?" He snaps impatiently.

"You never answer _your_ phone," John answers unhelpfully.

"Yes – but it's _me_ calling!" Molly is upset, she has been crying – and she's refusing to answer his call. Something is wrong – something was wrong before Eurus even dialed her number, and it must link back to him.

 **Fact 2: The idea that Molly is hurt because of him, that something he is unaware of has altered her perception of him - makes him want to fix it,** ** _now._**

But it will have to wait.

It is a small mercy that Eurus tries again, and John's half-muttered prayer for Molly to _bloody pick up_ echoes Sherlock's desperate will for her to do the same.

She answers this time, and it gives him confidence. He can get her to say it – it's just three words, three little words, and if he tells her it's important, she'll surely say it. Maybe he'll even get _lucky_ and she'll repeat them in disbelief – ' _I love you?'_ – and it will be done, and she'll be safe.

She doesn't.

In fact, she is _angry_ that he makes the request at all and she nearly hangs up on him.

"Molly – _no!_ Please, no – don't hang up. Do _not_ hang up!"

 **Fact 3: He will** ** _beg_** **her to say those three words. Her life is that important to him.**

Eurus chastises him – twice – and in his attempts to get Molly to say the release code, he bungles it up even more by insinuating that she's an _experiment_.

"No, no!" He corrects himself, eyes wild with panic that Molly will never see. "I know you're not an experiment. You're my friend. We're _friends._ But - "

 **Fact 4: She is his friend. Before he even appreciated what the word meant, before John taught him the value of friendship - she was his friend. She is the most trustworthy, loyal friend he has ever had, along with John.**

"-please. Just – say those words for me."

"I can't. I can't – I can't say that to you." She sniffs, and the sound sends fractured splinters through his head and into his chest.

"Of course you can. _Why_ can't you?" _Why can't she? Why can't she tell him she loves him? Of course she does, she's his friend, she loves John and John's her friend – she loves her friends, and they're friends, so why can't she say it –_

"You know why."

His eyes dart to the timer and his face drops, and his cajoling tone with it. "No, I don't know why."

"Of course you do."

MAINTAIN DISTANCE _, warns the sign in his mind._ MAINTAIN DISTANCE.

He blinks, and he is aware his desperation is leaking through to his features. " _Please_ – just say it."

She sighs, and her words come with it, carried on her shaky breath. "I can't. Not to you."

"Why?" He asks, and his anxiety is making his voice cold and cutting.

"Because…"

He blinks and steps forward impatiently.

"…because it's… _true._ " If her voice wasn't being broadcast at full volume through the prison speakers, it would be hard to understand her. She leans into the counter, and her voice is almost a sob.

"Because – it's _true_ Sherlock. It's _always_ been true."

 **Fact 5: Molly Hooper loves him, and has always loved him. Even when he was an intolerable arsehole, even when he said horrible things to her, even when he asked her to lie to the world for two years, even when he let her down with his drug habit, even when his arrogance resulted in the death of their dear friend, even then – she has always loved him.**

Later, he will think about how this particular fact has shaped his life, and who he is. But there is no time for that now.

This is followed quickly by the following fact:

 **Fact 6:** **Molly's love for him has only ever benefited him. It has only ever made him better.**

MAINTAIN DISTANCE. MAINTAIN DISTANCE.

He's too close to the glass, now – far too close to that invisible barrier between his mind and heart, but he won't step back if it means losing her. He _will not_ lose her.

"Well," he says calmly – "If it's true, just say it anyway."

The sound that escapes her lips is almost a laugh. "You _bastard._ "

"Say it anyway." He demands, and he doesn't have time to assess the damage he is doing, because if she dies, the loss will be permanent – and that is entirely unacceptable.

"You say it."

He knows it is a scientific impossibility for time to slow down, but in the few seconds that follow Molly's request – it certainly feels that way.

"Go on," she prods him, and her voice is strong and resolute. "You say it first."

MAINTAIN DISTANCE. MAINTAIN DISTANCE.

"What?" He asks, and he knows his face is slack with shock.

"Say it," she says softly. "Say it like you _mean_ it."

Her tone reminds him of the one she'd used while drawing him a bath – the voice that said, in its timbre and resonance, that she sees something he's hiding, and wants him to admit it. And though his body is riddled with stress and anxiety – the memory of her – of being in that intimate setting with her – his body remembers her, and responds to the soothing tone of her words, though the words themselves are a special kind of torture.

 _If he's being honest with himself, his body has always responded favorably to the presence of Molly Hooper. That's why he finds her flat such an amenable bolt hole._

 **Fact 7: He is -**

"I – I", he tries, now consciously attempting to avoid that last fact with all the strength he can muster – "I love you," he stutters, and his words are hard and fast. He exhales, having done what she asked.

He is surprised that she smiles sadly, just a bit – and brushes her thumb against her lips – and as she does so, the last fact jumps to the forefront of his mind with resounding clarity and a force that _cannot_ be ignored.

 **Fact 7: He is physically attracted to Molly Hooper.**

The breath he draws in next is excruciating – it would be less painful, he thinks, if he were attempting to inhale Arctic sea water or the tentacles of a man-o-war.

Because all of the facts – all of the facts his mind has accumulated in the background of their two and half minute phone conversation have led to _this –_

 **Conclusion:** "I _love_ you."

He does not have time to process exactly what that means, because the timer is still counting down, and she still has not said the same words to him.

"Molly?" he asks, desperately. "Molly, _please_."

She finally presses her mouth to the phone, and very softly answers – "I love you."

A collective sigh of relief fills the room, and Eurus disconnects the call.

* * *

Molly stares numbly at the phone on her countertop, chewing on her cheek. She brings her right hand up to her neck and rests it there, thumb fiddling with the collar of her jumper, and blinks in silence for several moments.

She thinks that maybe she should cry, but it seems the shock of that phone call has dried up her reserves, and no tears come.

She moves to finish her tea, and then decides she no longer wants it. Her arms fall limply to her sides. She frowns at her socks, and then looks up and takes a step toward her lounge, thinking that perhaps she'll read or watch telly or take a nap or –

Her shoulders slump, and she realizes she doesn't want to do any of those things.

She _wants_ to confront Sherlock about the cruel idiocy he's just put them through – but she will _not_ call him back.

She wants to get out of her flat.

She pulls on her jacket and shoes, slides her keys and phone and ID into her pocket, and locks the door behind her. She stands on her welcome mat and looks around, mind seemingly running on autopilot, and takes a few steps down the street, where some neighbors have collected around Mr. Girard's front door.

Several of them are shaking their heads and _tsking_ and a few look quite stricken.

Molly makes her way to the small crowd and recognizes Donovan on the scene. The ambulance and other emergency vehicles are long gone, and Donovan is locking up and rolling caution tape across the door.

Molly frowns. Caution tape usually indicates a messy death, possibly murder. That doesn't make sense –

"Sergeant Donovan!" She calls, and Donovan looks up over her shoulder at her.

Sally Donovan makes an exclamation of surprise, and then breaks off the last of the tape, tucking the last little bit of the roll into her pocket. She turns and walks to Molly, and offers her a sideways smile. "Doctor Hooper. Didn't expect you. You live round here, then?"

"Three doors down." Molly gestures with her head toward her front door. "What happened to Mr. Girard?"

Sally frowns sympathetically, and pulls her around the small blockade on the sidwalk, mentioning to a colleague to begin picking it up. She leans forward and speaks quietly. "Sorry to tell you this, but we're suspecting homicide."

Molly's heart starts racing, and her face drops in shock. _This doesn't make sense. He was recovering from a stroke – that – that is probably what killed him._ That's what she'd _assumed_ had killed him."Are you certain?" Molly asks, her voice low.

"Yeah, pretty certain," Donovan snorts, then grimaces apologetically. "Victim was shoved in the airing cupboard."

"How long?" Molly asks, staring at the caution tape on the door, attempting to make sense of something that is just completely unbelievable to her, at the moment.

"How – long?" Donovan asks, uncertainly.

"How _long_? How long was he in the airing cupboard? Had rigor mortis set in? Was the body cool? Was there any notable decomposition? Was there any indication of how he died?"

Donovan steps back and blinks, eyebrows raising in surprise. "I can give you a ride to Bart's, if you'd like to see for yourself. Were you close to him?"

"No. I mean – yes, I'd like a ride to Barts, and no – I wasn't close to him."

Sally nods. "Bryan!" She shouts, and the officer cleaning up the blockade looks up to her. "I'm making a stop at Bart's, and then I'll meet you back at the Yard, yeah? You and Nate've got everything covered here?"

He gives her a thumbs up as an affirmative, and Molly slides into the cruiser as Sally gets behind the wheel.

"Thanks," Molly says, taking the time to shake out her ponytail before putting it up again, more neatly.

"No problem. You sure you're all right?" Sally looks sideways at her, and Molly catches her reflection in the passenger side mirror. She certainly looks like she's been through the wringer, today.

Molly pulls her mouth back into a facsimile of a smile. "Fine. I'll be fine." Changing the subject, she asks – "There was only the one body, then? Have you contacted his granddaughter?"

Sally frowns. "Yeah, just Girard. What are you talking about, his granddaughter?"

Molly gives her an incredulous look. "Trish. His granddaughter. She moved in a few weeks ago to help after he'd had a stroke. She was planning on leaving a few days ago, said he'd improved a lot. Has anyone tried to contact her?"

Sally's grip tightens on the wheel. "Are you _sure_ about that?"

"Of course I'm sure! I saw her outside plenty of times – she had tea with me, once – gave me – gave me this bracelet-" Molly holds up her hand and waves her wrist lightly.

Sally gives her a serious look before refocusing on the road. "Dr. Hooper," she says tightly. "Molly-"

Molly looks at her in confusion, and her heart sinks. _Something is not right. This isn't right. Nothing is right, right now._

"Molly – we spoke with Mr. Girard's immediate neighbors, and no-one mentioned a granddaughter."

Molly opens her mouth to protest – _of course there was a grand-daughter, of course they'd seen her – Trish came out to meet her all the time, she seemed friendly and a little nosy – how could they not notice?_ But Sergeant Donovan continues.

"And – I don't know how to say this -" Sally gives her another concerned look. "But – we've been trying to contact next of kin. Closest we could reach was a cousin in Caen. There aren't any children listed-"

Molly's mouth drops open.

"-Molly – Mr. Girard didn't _have_ a granddaughter."

* * *

Sherlock pedals backwards from the revelation in his mind, retreating from everything he now knows and does not want to face.

MAINTAIN DISTANCE.

He ignores Mycroft's attempts to _sympathize_ , and instead focuses on his sister.

His _sister._

"Eurus. I won, I won."

She doesn't answer at first, and he rubs his hand over his face, gesturing at the camera with his gun. "Come on, play fair. The girl on the plane, I need to talk to her."

Eurus tilts her head and gives him the most sympathetic gaze she can muster, marveling at the scene before her.

So many emotions – so _many_ complicated little emotions.

He _almost_ understands.

He _almost_ understands what it feels to be _alone_.

Without.

With no one.

"Saved her, from what? Oh, _do_ be sensible, Sherlock. There were no explosives in her little house. Why would I be so clumsy? You _didn't_ win. You lost."

 _He hurt her for nothing, just like Eurus hurt Redbeard for nothing._

 _Now they've both the lost the game._

 _Now Sherlock can play fair._

"Look at what you did to her. Look at what you did to _yourself_."

* * *

He cannot hear her, anymore.

He cannot hear her, or John, or his brother. He cannot see them.

All of his senses are focused on that coffin.

He is aware of a weight leaving his hand, and then he is standing before the lid – _I Love You_ engraved onto a small metal plaque on the smooth wood.

It would have been different if he'd realized it of his own volition. The confession. The _I love you._ But of course, that's not Eurus's way. Her way is scientific. Precise. Unemotional. Variables presented in such a way to elicit extreme outcomes. And so the realization that he does indeed _love_ Molly Hooper is cut from him along with the confession, hacked from his chest and throat.

He moves the lid to rest on top of the coffin, and runs his hands over the smooth surface.

Before he even knows what is happening, his thoughts of the events of the past few minutes have carried his love through that stupid, nonexistent barrier between his heart and mind – and his heart is resting in the casket designed for Molly, and he doesn't know how to save it.

 _How fitting_ , he thinks – that he must now bury his emotions – bury his _heart_ \- because the game is not over, and he is still a player in it. So he must bury them, bury his heart once more so that he has a chance to escape and explain to – to Molly –

But no – _No_.

He _tries,_ but he _cannot_ bury them, cannot pretend that this did not just alter his entire world as he knows it.

A monster is eating him alive from the inside out. He is raw and bleeding, though no wounds are visible.

He is _grieving,_ and the realization that he feels what he felt when Mary died – but _worse_ – it is _worse_ because he _hurt Molly,_ he _purposefully, methodically wounded_ her – for _nothing -_ makes him furious – absolutely furious.

It is worse, because he wounded her with the _truth,_ and she doesn't know it. He's not even sure he knows it fully, himself.

And it's not even just his grief, his pain – when he thinks that now, at this instant, Molly Hooper is feeling all that he is and more, staring down at a phone that is playing a dial tone, her own confession swallowed up in cold indifference – he feels the anger and sorrow and regret well up, undeniable - all the more.

Her grief was _tangible_ on the phone, on the cameras - and he tastes it now, and it is a salty, bitter, hard thing. Strangely, he wants to swallow it whole – he wants her there (not _there_ of course, not with him in the hell of Eurus's design) but he wants to be with her - he wants her to see and to know and to understand. He can't _stand_ for her not to know the truth. He wants to swallow her grief whole, to swallow up and absorb the pain and take it away from her – but he _can't_ \- and the knowledge that he may never be able to – that he may never be able to explain, even if he solves every puzzle Eurus puts to him – _because how can he explain that his sister knew how much Molly meant to him, before he did?_ – that knowledge tears at his mind and chest.

Even if he does escape – _at what cost, at what cost_ – Molly may never speak to him, again.

And even if she does listen to him, again – she may not forgive him.

And even if she forgives him – things will never be what they once were.

He may have to spend the rest of his life grieving for someone who is still alive _._

The fact that she is _alive_ is not nearly as comforting as it was before – it is a fool's consolation, because she was never in any danger to begin with.

No – the only one she was ever in danger from was _him._

He cannot bear it, and his outer actions mimic the warfare on the interior – the coffin splintering into thousands of pieces that can never, and will never, be put back in their proper place.

* * *

"Here – just – stop _here_ ," Molly commands, and throws open the door in front of Bart's before Sergeant Donovan has it fully in park. "Thanks for calling Greg. I'll be in the morgue."

She nearly runs down the corridors to her locker, pulling on a lab coat and flinging her things into the locker haphazardly. She makes it to the morgue in record time, and impatiently washes her hands and pulls on her sterile gloves.

Mr. Girard's mysterious death (and his mystery not-granddaughter) has her on guard, and throwing herself so fully into solving her neighbor's murder also conveniently distracts her from that…conversation with Sherlock, earlier.

(She'll never admit it, but she's a lot like Sherlock, in that regard – if she's avoiding something uncomfortable, her work is the surest candidate for distraction.)

"Sorry, Chris," she apologizes for startling her co-worker, giving him a brief smile in greeting as she pulls the last of her glove down below her wrist.

"No, it's – fine," he says, up to his elbows in a young woman. "I – er – isn't it your day off?"

"Something's come up," she says tersely. "Where is Adrien Girard?"

"Um, just came in an hour ago? Second drawer from the left," he nods towards the correct cooler.

Molly snaps the drawer open with a ferocity that surprises even her.

 _Strangulation,_ she notes immediately, observing the bruising on his throat, and she sighs. _Time of death between two and three days ago._ She shivers.

 _Trish._ Adrien Girard was most likely already dead when Trish gave her that bracelet – the one that now neatly sits in an evidence baggie in Sally Donovan's patrol car.

 _Murderer sat on his chest –_ she notes the bruising on his upper arms – _and held his arms down with his or her knees, or…feet? Probably knees, and probably a her_ , she notes, as the bruises on the forearms are close to the shoulders, indicating a narrow frame and smaller legs, and the fact that the murderer had to sit on the victim to get enough force to strangle him.

She inspects the rest of the body carefully, and when the doors to the morgue bang open, she only blinks in mild surprise. She looks up, and there are Greg and Sally.

"Everything all right?" Chris asks leisurely, though his skin is puckered slightly above the eyebrows.

"Just fine," Molly replies, nodding to the two Yarders. "Greg, he was strangled-"

Greg walks to the nearest countertop, holding two files in his hands. "Clean?" He asks, inclining his head toward it.

"Go ahead," Molly nods, and waits. He deposits the files on the counter, and flips them open.

"There's another one," he sighs, and rubs the back of his neck, before looking at Molly intently.

"Another-?"

Greg nods. "Brought the files. Several similarities. I'm just glad I overheard the lead Inspector yesterday – I want to get a lead on this ASAP, if there's a connection. Both victims strangled, bruising on upper arms as well-"

"She sat on them, and used her knees to hold them down," Molly interrupts.

"-She?" Greg asks.

"I'll have to see the other report to confirm, but the spacing of the bruising and balance of probability indicates a female-"

He nods. "-and both victims were shoved rather unceremoniously into their respective airing cupboards."

Molly nods. "Where was the other victim?"

"Other side of London. Pretty little neighborhood. Address was…" Greg looks at the file on the right. "…1242 Thurlow, near Burgess Park."

Molly freezes, and her face pales several shades.

"Whoa!" Sally exclaims, and moves to stand by the pathologist. "You all right? Need to sit down?"

Molly shakes her head, taking a few sure-footed steps to the counter, and Sally steps backward. "Are you sure?" Molly asks, and Greg looks at her, concerned.

"Yeah. Here," he says, pointing to the address on file. "1242 Thurlow. Why?"

Molly blinks, and her mouth snaps shut as she looks her two colleagues in the eye.

"Because that's the address of John's therapist."

* * *

"Ten…" The muzzle is cold and hard against his throat, and he uses both hands in order to keep them from trembling.

"No, no Sherlock…" Eurus chides – but he can hear the concern and mild surprise in her voice.

It's a calculated risk, but this whole _thing_ has been all about him – so even if he's overestimated his worth to his sister, it is worth it.

He will _not_ destroy what is left of his heart by shooting Mycroft in his.

"Nine…eight…"

He studiously ignores the panicked looks his brother and best friend exchange.

"You can't!" Eurus says, and her voice is cracking now.

"Seven…"

"You don't know about Redbeard yet!" It's a desperate bid to pique his interest enough to continue playing her game – but it stopped even remotely resembling a game the last round, and he's done playing.

He shifts his stance so that he uses only one hand now, and continues the countdown. "Six…"

"Sherlock!" Eurus cries.

His hand isn't trembling anymore.

He would rather die than hurt anyone else he loves tonight.

"Five…"

"Sherlock, stop that at once!"

He is suddenly hit with a sharp prick to the back of the neck. Keeping one hand steady on the gun at his neck, he reaches around and pulls the dart out.

"Four…"

 _Tranquillizer. Same as the one she used to hit –_

John flinches and reaches behind his head where a dart has hit him.

"Three…" Sherlock continues, but his voice is low and quiet, now.

Mycroft goes down before him, and Sherlock sees John fall out of the corner of his eye as he falls backward, himself – muscles turned to jelly and loosing all ability to maintain control of his system.

"Two…" he mutters, but his is out before he even hits the ground.

* * *

"It's not a coincidence," Molly insists for the third time to Sally Donovan. "There _are_ no coincidences when it comes to Sherlock Holmes."

"Donovan," Greg says gently, intervening. "Whether or not this is related to Sherlock – and it very well may be, given that he, his brother, and Doctor Watson are missing in action after his flat blew up this morning – it won't hurt to have her call in some help and go over things. Because even if it's not related to Sherlock – we've got two very similar murders in one weekend, and it looks to be by the same person. I'm not gonna have a serial killer break out while Sherlock's not around to help stop him."

"Her," Molly corrects. "It's a woman, I'm nearly positive. Actually, I'm pretty sure I've met her. I'm pretty sure I've had _tea_ with her. I just don't understand why…" her voice trails off, and she frowns at the files in front of her.

"Right, then," Sally sighs. "I'll call Detective Inspector Peters and ask her team to collaborate? We can go over the crime scenes and search the residencies again. And we'll need you to give us a detailed description of the suspect."

"Good," Molly nods, and both Greg and Sally raise their eyebrows in surprise. "I'm calling in some favors, myself. Where is the body from Thurlow?"

"St. Thomas's," Greg answers slowly.

Molly smiles. "Excellent. Rikin owes me one."

* * *

As Greg and Sally work with DI Peters in attempt to glean any extra information from the crime scenes about the suspect, Molly calls in some favors.

She's accumulated a lot; given how well and how frequently she works.

She gets the therapist's body from Rikin at St. Thomas's, and asks Bonnie and Meena to come in to help with the paperwork and the two autopsies. Once Chris finishes his current autopsy, he helps as well.

The four of them work well together, intently focused on the task at hand.

"Based on bruising patterns on the throat, left hand and right forearm were used in the strangulation of both victims," Bonnie notes. "Suspect had to lean forward and use the force of gravity and their body weight to assist in the killing."

"Bruising patterns on both victims' upper arms indicate the suspect's knees were used to hold them down." Meena awkwardly brushes a stray strand of hair out of her eyes with her shoulder as she makes her observations, confirming Molly's from earlier. "Width, distance, and depth of bruising patterns indicate that we are looking for a strong middle-aged female, weighing between sixty and sixty-eight kilos and measuring between 1.72 meters and 1.77 meters in height."

"Which matches the description of the suspect, alias Trish Girard," Molly confirms, going over Girard painstakingly, attempting to collect every clue she can from his dead body. Chris does the same with the therapist.

He finds skin under the therapist's nails that matches the skin under Girard's based on simple microscope analysis, and though they send samples for further enquiry to the Yard with instructions to run them ASAP, they know it could be days before the results come in.

Molly finds a hair on Mr. Girard that belonged to a wig.

Chris finds a hair on the therapist that is not from a wig and not from any of them, though there's no guarantee it came from the murderer.

They place both in evidence baggies for further study later, and the four coworkers begin working together on the autopsies themselves.

They are nearly finished with the autopsies when Greg comes through the morgue doors, face as stormy as Molly's ever seen it.

He presses his lips together and nods in greeting, and Molly steps away from Girard's body. "Can you finish this up for me, Meena?"

Meena nods in agreement and takes over, and Molly heads to the sink to wash up.

"What is it, Greg?" She asks, giving him a concerned look as she scrubs vigourously.

"What did you find?" He asks instead, inclining his head toward the bodies on the slabs.

"Confirmation that the killer of both victims is most likely the woman who brought me a goody basket and had tea with me last week," Molly says, and it's almost a joke. "You can tell Sally to circulate that police sketch, now."

"Bloody _hell_ ," he mutters, and runs a hand over his face before eyeing her seriously. "Are you okay, Molly?"

Molly pauses for a moment, thinking about it. She's not okay, but that has more to do with the uneasy feeling that a certain phone call from a few hours ago may have had more behind it than a bored arsehole detective than it does with the fact that she may have had tea with a serial killer last week. "No," she says honestly – "but I'm not dead, so I'll be fine."

He takes in her expression for a moment before nodding brusquely himself. "Right. Well…" he looks like he is about to say something else, but Molly doesn't want comfort right now. She wants _answers_.

"What did you find, Greg?" She asks again.

He presses his lips together. "Can you come to the Yard with me? We found something. It might be nothing – but – I think-" he shakes his head after a moment. "Just – come with me."

"Okay." She finishes drying up and her colleagues assure her they can finish the bodies and the paperwork.

"So…no evidence that links anything from the murders to Sherlock's flat blowing up, though I haven't actually been able to get access to Sherlock's flat. Mycroft's agents are still in charge of the place." He walks briskly to the elevator and hits the button for the ground floor.

"But we were able to get a couple extra volunteers to come in and go over the houses with fine-toothed combs. Didn't find much at the therapist's house, a few fingerprints -but those've been put in and didn't come up as anything – so while they might be useful if we can find Trish, they're a bit of a dead end at the moment."

"All right…" Molly prompts him as the elevator doors open, and they both keep stride as they make their way to Greg's cruiser.

"We did find something…odd, in your neighbor's house. Fingerprints, a few other things par for the course, and then…that one odd thing."

They climb in and buckle up, and Greg puts his sirens on to avoid the worst of the evening traffic.

"Really?" Molly asks, concerned.

"It's not that pressing, the evidence-" he assures her – "but this is one of the few perks that comes along with keeping the DI position over a higher-up desk job."

"Right," she smiles, and settles back for the short ride.

* * *

It's several shoeboxes of what could only be described as family pictures.

Many of them are torn in half, or into pieces, but there are a fair amount that remain intact.

Greg and Donovan and another officer that Molly recognizes, but whose name she can't recall, stand to the side, give her a pair of gloves, and let her look through the lot of them.

The two officers are in the process of sorting them, grouping shots with similar people or scenes together, attempting to place some sort of chronological order to them.

There are some of a man – tall and thin with a warm smile, and of a woman – shorter and curvier, with light hair and eyes and a sharpness to her features. They appear to be parents, as either of them is occasionally holding an infant or child.

Most of the pictures, however, are of various combinations of four children – three boys, and a girl.

One boy is obviously the oldest. He is rather chubby, with a shock of dark hair and dark eyes. In almost every picture, from apparent toddlerhood to approximately ten years old, he has a very serious expression on his face.

The other two boys are similar in size and, presumably, age – one is very thin and has a mop of curly dark hair and light eyes, and the other is shorter, with straight, limp hair, dark eyes, and a perpetual grin at the side of his mouth.

The girl is about the same size as the boys, with dark hair and light eyes. Her face, like the eldest boy, is more often than not either glowering or screwed up in some sort of expression of distaste. There are a few, however, where she is smiling prettily, and she looks almost elfin.

It appears that the eldest boy, the boy with light eyes, and the girl belong to the parents, as the five of them are occasionally all together, posing for the camera.

The other boy – the smiling one, he is usually in pictures with the younger boy in the family.

"You found these in my neighbor's house?" Molly asks, and Greg nods in confirmation.

"Under the kitchen sink. Odd spot for family mementos. And none of them looked a thing like Adrien Girard, so we thought we'd bring them in."

"Cousins, or a friend?" Molly asks softly, pointing to a candid shot of the two young boys wearing pirate paraphernalia and brandishing wooden swords.

"Not sure, but that's our best guess, as well. We think these," Donovan gestures to a picture with the family of five, "are immediate family, and that that boy -" she gestures to the smiling child "- is, as you said, a friend or other sort of relative."

Greg looks at her closely. "Do you…" he starts slowly, and she looks expectantly at him. "Do you…y'know…recognize anyone in the photos?"

Molly studies them again, closely, for a moment. "Well," she responds. "I mean – that boy-" she points to a photo of the boy with curly hair – "he sort of reminds you of Sherlock, doesn't he? With the hair and eyes. And I suppose that the older one with dark hair could be Mycroft. The bone structures in the faces are close enough. I'm not certain, though," she says apologetically. "I've honestly never seen any photographs of them as children, and I've never met his parents. John has," she adds, frowning. "But that doesn't help us, does it?"

Greg shakes his head. "What about the girl?" He asks, turning the largest photograph they've found of her toward Molly.

Molly stares for a moment, and her stomach twists, knowing what he's asking. "I'm not sure," she says slowly, and then lifts her eyes to meet Greg's intense look. "I mean – I suppose the girl could be Trish grown up, it's _possible._ But I can't say with any confidence that she _is._ And…there's a - girl? If these photos _are_ of Sherlock's family…I've _never_ heard either of them ever mention a sister. And there's an overabundance of pictures here of _that_ boy…" she points to the one who's not part of the family of five.

" – Like he's been torn out of more pictures than the rest? Yeah, odd." Sally nods.

The three officers and Molly stand staring at the photos spread out before them, frowning and occasionally moving scraps from one pile to another.

"This is the fifth time this house has clearly been in a photo," Sally says suddenly, spreading out five photographs. The group collects around her to observe.

A large country manor-type house sits comfortably in the background of the photos. In one, the family of five poses in front of it, seemingly during the winter – perhaps around Christmastime. In the rest, one or more of the children squint into the camera and the house fills in the remainder of the frame. There is a small pile of photos beside the five that contain photos of people next to the house, too close to see how large it truly is – but close enough to provide detail that is missing in the pictures that frame the whole home. It is obviously very old and well-kept – and yet – not as imposing as one might expect from a house that size. Perhaps it lies in the fact that though the grass is neatly cut, there is very little landscaping, making it seem more of a ridiculously sized country cottage than an estate home.

A sudden loud ringing from Lestrade's mobile interrupts their focus and causes most of the group to jump slightly.

Greg frowns at the number on the screen, and silences it, then tucks it back into his pocket. Not three seconds later – it rings again.

This time, he mumbles a soft 'excuse me', and steps away from the tables strewn with evidence. "Hello?" He answers.

Greg stands up a bit straighter at whoever is on the other line. " _Mycroft's_ Anthea? Anthea, slow down." He says, frowning - and Molly's head snaps up toward him, lips parted in surprise.

His brows furrow further, and he shakes his head just a bit. "What – what fingerprints? What are you-"

He pauses, and listens, and Anthea must be using her deadly quiet _I-mean-business_ voice, because Molly can't hear a thing from the other end.

He turns so that his back is to the group, but his voice is clear and quiet when he answers her. "The fingerprints we ran an hour ago were taken from a home on Thurlow near Burgess Park, where an anonymous call alerted us to a potential crime. The owner of the home, Ms. Anna Fischer, was found murdered and stuffed in her airing cupboard."

Another pause, and then – "Yes, I'm certain. And we're fairly confident that same person those fingerprints belong to is a woman who's also suspected in murdering Adrien Girard, and we've-"

Molly has given up all pretense of studying the photos, and instead turns to fully face Greg, listening intently to his end of the conversation.

He stretches his shoulders and tilts his head back as he listens to Anthea. "Well, Molly-"

Another interruption, and he sighs.

"She's here, looking at some evidence we've found at the second murder scene. Weird pictures; we were hoping she might recognize – "

Greg shifts from one foot to the other. "Well, Girard lived a few doors down from her, and Molly's pretty sure she's _met_ the suspect-"

He turns now, his eyebrows raised, and meet's Molly's gaze. "Right. Right. Are you-? Okay. We're-"

The doors to the conference room open, and there is Anthea, ending the call and looking sharply around the room. Although Molly has only met the woman a handful of times, she has never seen the woman look frazzled – and she still looks perfectly put together – but there is something fierce and determined in her movements that Molly has never seen before.

Her _calm_ is gone, Molly decides.

"Out," Anthea commands, nodding at Donovan and the other officer in the room.

"What?!" They protest simultaneously, but two very official looking men step into the room behind Anthea, and her face leaves no room for argument.

The men flash credentials their way, and again, Anthea commands – "Out, please. This is a matter of national security, and I must see the evidence and speak with Doctor Hooper and DI Lestrade alone. Depending on what I find, you _may_ be briefed shortly. Or, you may not. _Thank you_ ," she adds firmly at the first sign of dissent, "for your excellent police work and service to your country."

After they leave the room, the two men that arrived with Anthea leave as well, closing the door and standing on either side of it. Anthea nods toward Greg and Molly, and steps briskly toward the conference table and photographs. Her face is all business, but as she sees the first photographs, her lips part and she blinks in surprise. She actually sets her mobile down on the table beside her and presses her palms into the tabletop, letting out a long sigh. She quickly recovers, however, and presses her lips into a thin line as she skims through all of the pictures.

When she is done, she turns to her companions, who have been watching her curiously the whole time.

"Where did you get these?"

"Murder scene on Hill Street." Greg responds, firm and factual.

" _Where_ , exactly?"

"In those shoeboxes, stacked underneath the kitchen sink."

Anthea nods, and turns her attention to Molly. "Tell me everything. And I mean _everything._ "

Molly takes a deep breath, and begins.

* * *

They end up at one end of the conference table, and Greg pokes his head out a few minutes in to Anthea's interrogation to request coffee from one of the two intimidating men outside the door.

They sip their drinks as Anthea asks question after question – mostly to Molly, and occasionally to Greg.

After Anthea is apparently satisfied with their answers, she does something that shocks both of them to the core.

Anthea – who has only ever been known by either of them by that one name – who rivals Mycroft in her ability to keep her emotions out of play, while she's on the job – Anthea places her elbows on her knees, and her face in her hands, and groans.

Greg and Molly sit there, eyes wide, looking between the woman before them and each other. The sinking feeling Molly has been feeling since she realized that the murders may be connected to Sherlock suddenly seems infinitely heavier. She's afraid to breathe.

After a moment, Anthea rubs her face vigorously and looks up, and pats a stray hair back into place. No one would ever guess she'd just spent several moments with her face buried in her hands. "Assume that everything I say from now until the Holmes brothers are back in London is classified."

They nod silently, eyes not moving from her face.

"To say this is bad would be a gross understatement _._ " She eyeballs them, face hard, until they nod hesitantly in understanding at just how _bad_ it is.

"The fingerprints you recovered from Ms. Anna Fischer's house belong to a very dangerous criminal, who has been secured in an island facility – more of a fortress – known as 'Sherrinford' since she was eight years old."

" _Eight-?!"_ Molly exclaims incredulously.

" _Eight._ " Anthea repeats firmly. "And apparently, she has escaped." She shakes her head and stands, retrieving her phone from the table and beginning to text almost as quickly as Sherlock.

She doesn't look up for a few moments, and Greg and Molly exchange looks, concerned.

"Er – Anthea-" Greg asks, and she bobs her head just a bit, to indicate that she is listening – though she doesn't look up from her phone.

"Does this have anything to do with Sherlock?"

Goosebumps break out on Molly's arms and the back of her neck as Anthea snorts in response. "Oh, this has _everything_ to do with Sherlock."

* * *

She doesn't tell them how.

She doesn't confirm or deny that the people in the pictures are the Holmes family, though both Greg and Molly are pretty much sold on that point, by then.

She doesn't say anything about who the girl in the photos or the woman Molly met _actually_ is.

She doesn't tell them exactly _how_ it relates to Sherlock – just that it does – that the explosion at his flat, and the murders, and her friends' disappearances are all definitely related, and that the brothers will debrief them as necessary after the suspect is in custody once again.

"Our immediate priority is to locate the suspect, and based on the fact that I've received no response from inquiries to Sherrinford since late this morning – I'm assuming the prison has been compromised, and that means that Mycroft, Sherlock, and Dr. Watson are now officially missing persons."

Molly bites her lip, knowing how important it is for Anthea to know Sherlock phoned her this afternoon, but baulking against the level of her embarrassment at the contents of said conversation.

Of course, Anthea notices. "Is there something else?" She asks tersely. "Because we need to know _everything_ if we're going to contain this disaster and save our three men. Assuming they're all still alive, of course."

Molly purses her lips and exhales. "Sherlock phoned me this afternoon."

Greg and Anthea both focus on her, surprised. "Really?!" Anthea frowns. "I've been trying to contact them since we've had radio silence -" she shakes her head. "Their mobiles were all out of service. I thought it might be because of a storm out that way – until Lestrade ran the fingerprints, and I was notified of the results and realized something was very wrong. What did he say?"

Molly can't help the flush on her neck, equal parts anger and embarrassment. "He…was a bit of an arse."

"Did he ask for anything? Tell you anything? Relay in any way _where_ -"

"No." Molly shakes her head.

After a sparse three seconds of silence, Anthea tries again. "What did he say?"

Molly sighs and stares at her feet for a moment, before looking the woman in front of her in the eye.

"He asked me to tell him I loved him." She says in a rush - and quickly looks away from the look of shock on both of their faces.

After a moment of silence, Greg peers at her, confused. "Re – really?"

"No, Greg, it's another of my awful jokes." She snaps.

He takes a step toward her, and shakes his head. "No – I mean – this is _Sherlock Holmes_ we're talking about. He asked you to tell him you _loved_ him and you _didn't_ think that was a sign that something was seriously wrong?!"

Molly crosses her arms and narrows her gaze at him. "Not terribly, no, not – not at the _time_ , because he said it was an _experiment_ for a _case_ – a case Anthea-" she gestures toward the secretary with a nod "-assured me they were all – all fine and dandy on, this morning, and that they didn't need me, or you, or anyone else's interference!"

There is silence after her outburst.

"Sorry-" Greg rocks back on his heels and rubs the back of his neck.

Molly's face and tone soften. "No – it's – I'm sorry. He was just – an utter arsehole about the whole thing, and-" she presses her face to her hands and groans. "Apparently, he -" she cuts herself off abruptly.

"Molly," Anthea says firmly. "Do you remember anything specific from the conversation? Any strange phrases, unusual emphasis…"

"I've been unwillingly replaying it in my head all evening," Molly admits after a moment, defeated.

Anthea hesitates. "Do you think you could tell me – just me, if it's too…personal – exactly what you remember of it? Just in case there is something relevant-"

"Okay," Molly agrees softly.

Greg steps toward her, holding his hands awkwardly at his sides, looking as though he wants to clap her on the shoulder, or hug her, or perhaps even salute her – but he's not sure which one. "Molly-"

"If I had access to the facility where he most likely made the call, I could pull a recording and save you the stress, but unfortunately-" Anthea continues.

"What choice do I have?" Molly laughs, and there is a bitter edge to it. This will be the second time today she's had to reveal something deeply private for the sake of Sherlock Holmes. "I can't exactly put them, or anyone else at risk to save my own pride, can I?"

Greg hesitates a moment, and nods. "I'll be outside, then."

* * *

Unfortunately, there's not much to be learned from what Molly remembers (and she remembers nearly every word) of the phone call with Sherlock.

Anthea slips easily back into the roll of indifferent, professional secretary, and Molly is glad for her lack of response to the details of her conversation.

"Thank you," Anthea says politely, when they are done. Molly stands and turns away, feeling at once exhausted and sick to her stomach. She's quite positive now that Sherlock will have an _excellent_ excuse as to why he put her through that special kind of torture, but at the moment, everything is still raw. She wants him to be safe, but she's almost terrified of seeing him again – of what it will do to her wounded heart.

As Anthea collects some of the photos for her own use, her phone rings. She answers and listens for several long moments, and then – "You are positive? Because I don't need to remind you that there is _no_ room for error. Excellent. Thank you. I'll alert the Yard and assemble a team for Musgrave, just in case it relates. Keep the ship on course for Sherrinford."

Molly turns back to the secretary, and Anthea offers her a small smile before crossing the room, opening the door, and asking for Greg. He arrives shortly, and Anthea informs them that a sleeper agent has reported an unusual shack recently erected just outside of the burnt down remains of Musgrave Hall.

"Sleeper agent," Greg confirms flatly, and his expression is one of unfazed acceptance.

"Well, sleeper agent isn't exactly the correct phrase. More of a retired…colleague, who promised to keep an eye on the place as a favor. Mycroft took every precaution with this…particular case. Unfortunately, it seems it wasn't enough. A carrier ship from Her Majesty's Navy is en route to Sherrinford as we speak, ETA fifty minutes and counting - but I'm willing to conjecture, based on the evidence of these photos, that this unusual sighting outside of Musgrave Hall does relate to today's events. As such, we are requesting the Yard's cooperation." Anthea continues typing instructions on her mobile, even as she fixes Greg with a steady gaze.

"Musgrave Hall…that's the one in the pictures, then?" He asks.

"Yes. I'm texting you the address."

His phone _pings_ with the incoming text, and he loads it into his phone's GPS. "What do you need?"

"Everything you've got."

"Bloody _hell_."

Anthea sighs. "Not every _one_. Every _thing._ Bomb squad. SO19. Helicopter. Special Rescue. Armored transport. Ambulance. At least two units. And we are going with suspected terrorist. No mention of the connection to the Holmes family. Are we clear?"

Greg's cheeks puff out as he exhales. "Clear. You do realize, even with _immediate_ approval, this will take two hours, minimum, to prepare."

Anthea focuses her attention from her mobile to the DI in front of her. "Then we best get started, then." She gives him a small, insincere smile.

He turns to Molly. "You…you going to be all right, then?" He asks, quietly. "What are you going to-?"

"Actually," Anthea interrupts – "I was hoping you could assist with the issue of Rosamund Watson, Dr. Hooper."

Molly straightens immediately. "Of course – what's wrong? Has something-"

"No, nothing has happened," Anthea reassures her quickly. "She is with her usual caretakers. Given the circumstances, however, I think it best she stay with a more known and trusted source – her godmother. I have taken the liberty of sweeping John's flat and placing some subtle security outside the premises. No matter what happens tonight, that child will sleep safely in her own bed."

Molly nods, a grim, uncertain smile on her face. "Yes. That's – that's probably for the best. I'll pick her up. And John – if he – well. He'll probably want to see her, after everything he's been through today."

"I'll be having agents sweep your flat tomorrow, as well," Anthea informs her.

" _My_ flat?" Molly asks incredulously.

"Your flat," Anthea confirms, and her voice leaves no room for argument. "It would be tonight – but – bigger fish to fry, and all that."

Molly swallows. "Right."

* * *

Sherlock is in survival mode.

He is alive, and alone – the voices of his best friend, sister, and the little girl on the plane intermingling in his head until they all merge to the one big truth that nearly destroyed him, once.

 _I am lost…help me brother. Save my life…before my doom._

 _I am lost…without your love. Save my soul…seek my room._

He does not have time to dwell on Eurus's design.

Later, he will have time to wonder, horrified, at how specifically Eurus designed all of her tests to prove to him that he feels – and that more than that, he _loves_ ; and that the love he has felt (and the love that has undeservingly been given him by others) is an important part of who he is – and how he functions.

But now, _now_ – he has to seek her out – this vindictive, sad, lonely, psychotic sister, and somehow use that part of him he's been repressing for _years_ to save her.

She is curled up in her old room – now a shell of what it was before - her hair a veil around her face, clinging to herself – alone and trembling.

"I'm here, Eurus," he says soothingly.

"You're playing with me, Sherlock. We're playing the game." Her voice is childlike and weary.

Despite all she's done to him today – despite all she's _done_ – his newly realized heart constricts, just a little, at how broken his sister is. "The game, yes – I get it now."

His voice wavers, and he thinks, briefly, that emotions are so like the patience grenades – waiting, lurking, until you've almost relaxed around them – and then they explode in your face. Loving Mary, loving Molly, loving John, loving Mycroft – and feeling – compassion and sorrow for the woman before him, the woman he ought to have loved, before, but never really got a chance to. "The song was never a set of directions."

"I'm in a plane, and I'm going to crash…and you're going to save me." She hugs her legs tightly to herself, and her eyes are screwed tightly shut as Sherlock crouches down before her.

His breath comes out as a strangled laugh. "Look at how brilliant you are. Your mind has created the perfect metaphor. You're high above us, all alone in the sky, and you understand everything except how to land." He sits, cross-legged in front of her. "Now," he licks his lips anxiously. "Now, I'm just an idiot, but I'm on the ground. I can bring you home." He reaches out, tentatively touching her hands.

His heart freezes in panic as she pulls away.

"No," she says flatly. She shudders, and her voice breaks a bit. "No, no – it's too late now."

"No it's not!" He insists desperately, and then blinks. _Everything, all day – all month, for who knows how long - everything has been about him. Even Eurus's instructions about Molly – 'don't let her know anything is wrong, it will end her'. It all relates back to him, and to her – to them._ He tries again, more softly. "It's not too late."

She sniffs and gasps, just a bit, shoulders slumped and shivering from cold. "Every time I close my eyes, I'm on the plane. I'm _lost_ …lost in the sky, and no one can hear me."

Sherlock shifts so that he kneels in front of her, and he reaches out again. This time, she does not pull away from his touch. "Open your eyes," he says softly.

Slowly, tentatively – she raises her head and opens her eyes. She blinks, and her tears fall freely.

"You're not lost anymore." He holds his arms out to her, and she lurches into them, wrapping her arms around him and letting out great silent sobs.

Sherlock closes his eyes and strokes her hair, allowing her this moment of comfort – this small moment of unconditional love, born of so much hate and fear and isolation. He swallows, and pushes forward. "Now, you – you just went the wrong way, last time, that's all. This time – this time, get it right. Tell me how to save my friend. Eurus," he pleads softly, pulling her gently away and framing her tear-stained face with his hands – "- help me save John Watson."

* * *

Molly draws the shades to the windows at John and Mary's flat, thought it's still an hour till sunset, and sits down for a moment. She hadn't even had time to go back to her flat, after everything was said and done. The shadows are soothing, calling her to lose herself in the darkness of sleep – to forget, however temporarily that may be.

She picks up her phone to see if there is any news from Greg, and she has one text.

 **They've got Mycroft secured. He's okay. Almost to Musgrave. Looks like that's where John and Sherlock will be. – GL**

She closes her eyes, and her lip wobbles, just a bit – tears that haven't come since Sherlock's call are threatening to well up and spill over, now.

They don't really get the chance, however, as the baby monitor emits a restless crackle of static, and then a loud, familiar wail. Molly stares ahead for a moment, frozen with exhaustion, before slowly making her way to her goddaughter's room.

She picks up the baby, and checks her nappy, and then walks to the lounge, bouncing and _shushing_ gently and rubbing small circles on the inconsolable infant's back.

After ten minutes go by and Rosie is still wailing in her arms, Molly's eyes are tearing up again in shared stress and sorrow. She plops herself in the recliner by the fireplace, shifting back so that the baby is nestled on her stomach and chest, and she sways tiredly side to side, still patting her back.

"Shhhh, Rosie. Shhhh. Everything will be all right." She attempts a smile, so that perhaps her words will sound cheerier and more convincing. "Ev – everything" – her voice drops to a whisper now, finally cracking from the weight of the day. "-everything will be all right. It'll be – it-" she sniffs – "it-"

And Molly Hooper is finally undone by the heartbroken cries of Rosie Watson.

Great silent sobs wrack her body, and she holds Rosie gently to her chest, her stress and sorrow intermingling with Rosie's until their anguished weeping and shaky breaths lull them both into unhappy slumber.

* * *

 **A/N: Well...*crawls out from under a rock*. It's been a bit longer than I anticipated. I blame the Great Midwestern Wind Storm and subsequent week-long power-outage of 2017. If it's not one thing, it's another, right? *shakes fist at universe*. Jehoshaphat trigger, put that pea-shooter _down!_ (Robin Hood reference, there.)**

 ***This paragraph (at the beginning of the chapter) is actually paraphrased/inspired from a chapter out of a MOPS devotional called "Becoming Starry-Eyed", of all things. It just...described so beautifully what I think Eurus's thoughts were at that moment I had to borrow the idea from it.**

 **Much thanks and kudos to ariane devere's livejournal transcripts of Sherlock's The Final Problem. I wouldn't have been able to get the dialogue for this chapter right without her amazing resource! Unfortunately, fanfiction won't let me link to her site, but if you google 'arianedevere' or even 'sherlock transcripts' it's pretty much the first result.**

 **Also, it took me forever to write this chapter because I got tired of writing such depressing angsty stuff and started writing the fluffier ending chapters instead. Hopefully that means the next break between updates will be just a little shorter (though the next chapter is still pretty angst-y.)**

 **Thank you again for all of your reviews, follows, and favs. I really appreciate them - the reviews especially keep me going when I'm struggling with writer's block.**


	8. Don't Let Me Drown

**A/N: Well, you've certainly waited long enough, haven't you? Thank you for your patience!**

* * *

 **Chapter 8: Don't Let Me Drown**

 _"Well, what is the worst thing you could do? Tell them your darkest secret. Because if you tell them and they decide they'd rather not know, you can't take it back. You can't unsay it. Once you've opened your heart, you can't close it again."_

 _-_ Culverton Smith, "The Lying Detective"

* * *

Eurus stares at him, tears still carving wet paths down her cheeks, emotions that she'd deliberately forgotten she had pooling up and emptying out for the first time in over two decades.

 _He chose her._

John Watson is trapped in a well, roughly fifteen minutes from drowning – and _he chose her._

He chose to save _her_ , and he wants her help.

She doesn't bother to wipe the dampness from her cheeks, instead standing up in one movement so smooth and sudden her brother rocks back, palms hitting the ground for balance, before he does the same.

"We have to shut the water off first," Eurus says, and her voice surprises her. It betrays her. She presses her lips together, and they're not sure whether to frown or smile.

He nods and places a hand on her arm, still focused so intently on her – reading her expressions, her body language, her voice. "How do we do that, Eurus?" He asks, and his voice is still gentle – still encouraging.

She's afraid it's some sort of trick.

She meets his eyes and quickly looks away. "Follow me."

* * *

He talks to John as they run, telling him what they're doing – encouraging him to hold on, that they're on their way, that the water will be off soon - but it doesn't grate on her quite as much as she thought it might. They're working _together,_ now, and it makes a difference.

He holds the lantern in front of him, and she has a torch she'd used in her room - they've only made it a few meters from the burnt shell of the house, though, when she stops suddenly and tilts her head, turning round and round, looking up toward the night sky. Her arms spin around her, and she feels very young again.

It's almost like she never left.

"What?" Sherlock stops suddenly as well, and turns uncertainly back to her. "Eurus – what is it? How do we turn off the water?" His voice is still gentle, but firm – and she knows she's frightening him, just a little bit, but it's _important_ , because it affects how they'll rescue John.

After a moment, she finds what she was looking for on the horizon, approaching quickly – and she nods, gives her brother a reassuring tilt of the chin, and begins to run again.

* * *

The water is actually very simple to turn off, and John confirms rather desperately that it worked, but that it's hard to stay above it.

"All right – we're coming, John – we'll get – we'll find something for you to hold onto while – Eurus – are there any bolt cutters, anything we can use to-" Sherlock stops, because his sister has stopped again, standing very still with a faraway look on her face.

"Eurus," he whispers, squeezing her shoulder, trying desperately to keep her _with him_ , because he cannot save John alone.

"They're coming," she says softly. A strange look passes over her face, and she meets his searching look with a hard one of her own and a small, knowing smile.

"Who's coming?" He asks, turning to look at the point that she was focused on moments ago. "Who's-"

He sees it then, on the horizon. Lights. Lights from a helicopter, and lights on a faraway road flashing through distant trees, indicating a large number of vehicles.

"Your _friends_ , Sherlock. They've figured it out." She sounds both bitter and impressed, and she turns and runs then, pointing the light from her powerful torch into the sky.

"Wait!" Sherlock cries, and he runs after her. It should be easy for him to keep stride with her, but she is surprisingly agile, and his exhaustion from the events of the day is catching up to him. Still, she doesn't seem to be attempting to run away from him. In fact, she slows every once in a while, clicking her flashlight on and off in rapid succession.

"Where is John?" He gasps.

"Just a little farther," she says, and her voice is eerily soothing. "Just a little farther."

"But we'll need – we need-" he's having trouble talking now, having run so far so quickly.

"I'm telling them what we need," Eurus says, and slows to a trot. She's breathing heavily as well, but it doesn't appear to have affected her ability to speak calmly and quietly.

He squints as he follows her, tracking the beam of light she's sending up into the night sky. She clicks it – _on and off, on and off, on and off._

He lets out a heavy breath of relief when he realizes she's using Morse Code.

H-E-L-P-N-E-E-D-R-O-P-E-A-N-D-B-O-L-T-C-U-T-T-E-R-S.

They're still trotting, quickly, and Eurus repeats her message, adding an S-O-S for good measure.

"What do you mean my friends figured it out?" He asks after she's finished her second round.

"I left them some clues." She says softly.

"What kind of clues?"

"Bodies, mostly." She smiles at him, though it doesn't reach her eyes, and the sensitive skin at the back of his neck prickles at her bared teeth.

"Why?"

She goes back to flickering her light. "Why bodies?"

"No," he corrects – because though it is insane and cruel, he understands that bodies were her most sure way of getting attention – "why did you leave them clues?" It doesn't make sense – if she wanted to hurt him, if she wanted John dead, if she wanted to relive her childhood – why risk anyone interrupting her plan?

She doesn't answer.

"Eurus," Sherlock tries again, because John is sputtering in his earpiece and the sound makes his heart skitter and drop in panic. "Eurus-" He looks over his shoulder, and the helicopter is nearly above them now –

-and then he realizes that he's not just hearing John in his earpiece – he can hear him yelling somewhere in front of him as well, and he holds out his lantern, carefully searching for the dark circle of a well.

He finds the edge of the well, and drops to his hands and knees. He is peripherally aware that Eurus is standing beside him, still flashing her light into the sky.

* * *

 _It would be so easy. So easy to push him in, to run and leave._

A part of her wants to.

The rebellious, angry six-year-old still lives inside her, and she wants to.

But she doesn't.

Because – for the first time in a long time – she also _doesn't_ want to.

Because he _chose_ her.

And if he did it once, he might do it again.

* * *

"John!" He cries, and he can barely make out the dark head of John Watson struggling to bob above the water. "John, we're here! We're – we're going to get you out, now, just-"

"Any-" John coughs, and his splashing is frantic. "Anytime-" he coughs again, and Sherlock misses some of what he's saying- "-bloody fantastic."

"Sherlock!" Eurus cries, her voice warning. The helicopter is on top of them now, and the wind and noise from the blades makes it difficult to concentrate on anything else. Eurus's hair billows around her, catching on her face, and she shakes her head to remove it. Dust stirred up from the blades catches in the light from his lantern and her torch, and the whole thing feels like the end of a bad dream.

Eurus pulls on his arm, and she's shouting something, but it's hard for him to make out what she's saying.

Sherlock resists, protesting. "No! I have to help John! I have to make sure he's-"

And a rope drops from the helicopter as it turns it brilliant searchlight down into the well.

Both Sherlock and Eurus stare at it for a moment. Sherlock's thoughts swing like a pendulum between his best friend and his sister – concerned for both, and yet not fully trusting the one.

 _(He's wise not to trust her, but it makes her realize how desperately she wants him to.)_

Still, he hasn't much of a choice, and so he grabs the rope and passes one end to Eurus. "Tree!" He screams as loudly as he can. "Tree, Eurus."

She nods, and makes a mad dash for the nearest tree, a squat, knarled thing a few meters away. He watches until he is satisfied that she's wrapped it round a few times and begun tying it tightly, and then throws the rest of the length down to John.

John gasps with relief and grabs on to the rope, wrapping it under his arms and around his chest, and Sherlock makes sure it is pulled taut, so that John doesn't have to struggle treading water any longer.

He knows it's no use shouting; the helicopter is too loud for that. He holds up a hand to his friend, and sags in relief when John raises his in return, giving him a thumbs up.

Someone on the helicopter makes an announcement through the loudspeakers. "HELP IS ON THE WAY. BOLTCUTTERS COMING ON THE FIRETRUCK. STAY CALM."

The line of vehicles has nearly caught up with the helicopter, now, and though he is loathe to leave John, he knows he is safe, for the time being. There are men on the helicopter, if his sister tries anything. He looks up to find that Eurus has secured the rope around the tree and is standing a few meters away from it, with her arms wrapped around herself and a somber, somewhat puzzled expression on her face.

He gives John a wave of his hand, and sprints for his sister. "Thank you, Eurus," he says quickly, squeezing her shoulder, but barely slowing down. She hands him the torch she'd used, and he takes it gladly. "I'm getting the bolt cutters."

She nods slowly, once, and he runs toward the line of incoming vehicles, keeping her in his line of sight while waving them closer.

* * *

She stands just outside the spotlight from the helicopter, feeling the wind from its blades whip around her body. It is loud, but since there is nothing else to distract her, at the moment – it is also very, very quiet.

The original plan -

She frowns, and shakes her head, as though trying to dislodge something.

The original plan - was to leave clues so that Sherlock's 'friends' could retrieve John's body, and marvel at her mad brilliance.

Wasn't it?

Something…like that.

Her plan has gone to hell, now.

Something at the back of her mind wonders if that's _really_ the reason she left clues for the Yard to find, or if she _wanted_ someone to stop her – to rush in and keep her from killing again.

 _She saved John Watson._

 _Sherlock helped her land, and she – she has helped another person land safely. She guided the helicopter. She saved a life._

The tables have turned, and she's not sure what to do or how to feel about where she's sitting now.

 _She got everything she ever wanted, and now – she's not sure what to do with it. Not that she'll have much longer to 'do' anything with it, anyway._

She shivers, and goosebumps break out on her arms.

Her heart beats faster, and she wraps her arms around herself to keep warm as the cavalcade of the rescue team trails to the well like so many ants in a line.

 _What was she expecting, that Sherlock would choose her and then they'd live happily ever after, playing airplane and solving puzzles?_

She could have pushed Sherlock in the well, too. She could have led them the wrong way, let John drown – _but she didn't._

And it makes her doubt herself.

She's built her life on the twisted logic she sold to the staff at Sherrinford, and for the first time – she _doubts_.

For the first time – there is a possibility, in her mind, that she was _wrong._

Something akin to panic rises in her chest, and she breathes tightly through her nose to keep it at bay, but it is too late.

Her carefully crafted world is unraveling.

* * *

The fire truck does indeed carry a set of bolt cutters, and while Sherlock would have dearly loved to rip them from their resting place and dive into the well to save John himself, he knows that for once – he needs to explain exactly what he needs them for. He has _two_ to look after, at the moment.

"We'll lower a man down," the firefighter nods in response.

As soon as they arrive, he jumps out, and the helicopter shifts away as the emergency crew sets up spotlights in order to see better. Sherlock shouts down to his friend once again. "They've got the bolt cutters, John. They're lowering a man down, now. You'll be out, soon."

(In reality, he was reassuring himself as much as he was John. He needed to see that John was still safely above water.)

Sherlock is aware of the men and women working around him, preparing a harness to lower someone into the well to cut the chains, calling orders – and the back of his neck prickles and his heart drops as he remembers exactly who else was in that parade of rescue vehicles.

He swallows, torn between observing the rescue of his best friend and maintaining whatever connection he's just made with his sister. He jumps up and turns, and sure enough – several SO19 have circled his sister and have their weapons trained on Eurus, who is standing, breathing heavily, face hard and movements jerky as she takes awkward steps backward.

"Stop!" He shouts, startling the rescue worker beside him. He brushes past the lot of them, dancing past the grip of one of the trained officers, and rushes headlong into the circle surrounding Eurus.

He holds his hands above his head, skidding to a stop just in front of his sister. "Don't shoot! Don't hurt her!"

He is still choking out the words as he feels her arms wrap around his torso, and he stiffens and frowns as she buries her face in between his shoulder blades.

"Eurus," he says sharply. "Eurus…what…what are you…"

She lets out a shaky breath and releases him, and he turns to face her.

Her eyes are wide and probing as she looks from his face to the armed men behind him and back again, and he sees in her expression a mixture of wonder and awe and confusion at his bold move.

"He'll be okay, you know," he says softly, placing his hands on her shoulders. She nods slowly and her lips twitch in one corner.

"Thank you," he adds, and she steps closer to him. The hairs on the back of his neck prickle, and he realizes that the SO-19 unit still have their weapons trained on the two of them, though they've stopped advancing for the time being.

"You said my friends figured it out," he says, squeezing her arms reassuringly. "Which friends, Eurus?"

She meets his eyes only for a moment, before her gaze slides away to the ground again, and she shifts from side to side. She blinks rapidly for a moment, and her mouth twists into a frown.

Sherlock frowns, and tries again. "Which friends, Eurus? Is there someone here I can talk to? Someone who'll believe me when I say you'll cooperate?"

She hunches her shoulders up at that, and he swallows thickly. "You will cooperate, won't you? Eurus? If you do-" he stops, knowing he shouldn't make promises he's not sure if he can keep.

She looks at him quickly again, and jerks her head up once in affirmation. "Lestrade."

"Lestrade?" Sherlock relaxes in relief. "He's here?"

He keeps his hands on her shoulders and twists to address the crowd of officers around him. "Lestrade!" He shouts. "Detective Inspector Lestrade from Scotland Yard – is he here?"

There is a small commotion for a moment before the familiar face breaks through the crowd. He gestures for him to come over, and the DI hesitates a moment.

"It's okay!" Sherlock snaps. "She'll go if you take her. And for-" he sighs in frustration and addresses the men and women surrounding them again. "Lower your weapons! She's not going to vanish into thin air or suddenly pull a gun out of her nightie. But you _might_ push her over the edge if she thinks you're going to shoot her at the first opportunity."

Lestrade nods to the commanding officer, and his men lower the weapons, still at full attention. Lestrade begins to trot over, and Sherlock turns back to his sister.

"Eurus," he says quietly, and she is still swaying gently side to side, staring at the ground. "Eurus," he repeats, and ducks down a bit so that she looks up and meets his eye. His lips tighten at the corners, and he rocks back a bit on his heels. "So-"

"Come visit me," she says softly, and she is blinking at him, hard, like she's having trouble focusing on him.

"Right," Lestrade says as he reaches them. He places a hand on Sherlock's arm, concern and confusion etched on his face. Sherlock presses his lips together and nods, and releases his grip on his sister.

Lestrade begins to read her her rights, and places handcuffs on her wrists. He turns to lead her away, continuing to speak gruffly to her to watch her step, holding her elbow to guide her, when she stops and turns back to look at her brother.

"Please," she says, and Sherlock sees the word on her lips more than he hears it.

He swallows thickly and nods, slowly. "I'll try," he reassures her, his voice barely loud enough itself _. I'll try._

She tilts her head and frowns before she dips her head in understanding, and turns to go with the detective inspector.

Those are the last words he ever hears her speak.

* * *

After brief statements have been made and they've been given the all-clear to go home, John gives the driver his address - but Sherlock corrects him halfway through.

"216 Hill Street, London, first. Then John's." His body is still and calm, but John can see from the tension in his jaw and neck that he is anything but.

"Molly's?" He repeats softly, leaning toward his friend as the driver pulls away from Musgrave. "Sherlock, Greg said she's at my place - she's not even going to be home-"

"Exactly." His voice is tired but curt.

John makes a warning noise in the back of his throat. "And what _exactly_ are you planning on doing there, then?"

"Oh, I don't know – maybe remove the cameras my sister placed there to spy on her every move and then used to torture the both of us?" His voice is sharp but tired, lacking the acidic sarcasm usually present in it. Sherlock stares at his hands in his lap for a moment, before running them through his hair and wincing. He presses his lips tightly together, and begins working on removing the larger splinters in his palms. Luckily, there seems to be more bruising and scratches than actual wood.

John stares at him, hard and searching for a moment, before nodding slowly. "Right, then. The cameras."

Sherlock is silent, and it is a long time before either man speaks again.

"You're coming to my place afterward." John says eventually, and it is not a question.

Sherlock swallows, but makes no indication as to what, precisely, he will do after he's done at Molly's.

John turns to face him, breathing deeply. "Look," he says, and his voice resonates with the firm composure of a commanding officer addressing a shell-shocked soldier. "I know we've all been through hell tonight, and the last thing you want - maybe the last thing Molly wants – is for you to see her. But you're not staying at her place, you're not going back to the disaster zone that is Baker Street, and you're not spending the night on the streets. We don't – we don't have to – talk, tonight…but we're not ignoring this or avoiding it or forgetting it, either. You're coming to my place afterward."

Sherlock blinks in concentration.

 _He shouldn't go to John's – he's still in survival mode, but the adrenaline that has gotten him through the past forty-eight hours is dissipating and making it harder and harder to avoid facing the fallout of everything he's experienced. If he's being honest with himself, he's barely holding it together._

 _But it's John's, the burned-out shell of Baker Street, or a crack den. The destruction of his home is too fresh and painful to even walk by alone – it will only remind him of Musgrave - and he knows if he goes to a crack den, he will have lost whatever small chance he has at reconciliation with Molly. And despite all that's happened today – and perhaps, because of it – he still_ _ **wants**_ _to reconcile with Molly. He_ _ **loves**_ _her, after all._

 _He should be_ _ **repulsed**_ _by that fact._

 _He should_ _ **hate**_ _her for making him weak, and hate himself for putting them both in danger because of it._

 _If anything, the events of the past two days should have been enough to prove to him, beyond a doubt, that Mycroft was always correct – that_ _ **caring**_ _is a disadvantage, a chemical defect found on the losing side. Because of his caring, Victor Trevor was dead. Because of his_ _ **sentimental attachment**_ _, he nearly killed himself to avoid killing his brother. Because of_ _ **love**_ _, he almost destroyed the woman who has cared for him and helped him more faithfully than any other person he's ever known. Because of_ _ **emotions**_ _, his best friend was almost murdered in the same fashion as Victor._

 _And yet – and yet –_

 _Because of_ _ **sentimental attachment,**_ _he was able to save his brother, by exploiting his sister's obsession with himself. Because of_ _ **love**_ _, he was able to_ _ **save**_ _the woman who loves him (loved him?). Because of_ _ **emotions**_ _and_ _ **caring**_ _, he was able to save his best friend from his sister, and save his sister from herself._

 _Sentiment led to the trials he'd endured, but they'd also been the only thing to save him – to save everyone involved – from the deadly consequences of said trials._

 _And really, though he'd steadfastly ignored it before – the tired, insistent truth has seeped past the broken, battle-weary barriers within his mind and heart. Sentiment was also the reason he'd stayed alive long enough to undergo what had happened today._ _ **Sentiment**_ _was the reason Mycroft had pulled him out of drug den after drug den, and finally pushed him toward Lestrade._ _ **Caring**_ _was what led Lestrade to introduce him to Stamford and the labs at Bart's, after cases themselves didn't seem to be enough of an incentive to stay off the drugs._ _ **Attachment**_ _is what caused John to shoot the cabbie killer and save Sherlock from the temptation of his own intelligence. And Molly and her love for him, with all its messy complications, was what defeated Moriarty in the end._

 _Time after time, when pure facts and data were not enough to keep him from stumbling, someone who_ _ **cared**_ _was there to pull him up and push him in the right direction._

 _And while he certainly did not feel as though he were on the winning side (would he ever, again?), he could not say with certainty that he had lost_ _ **completely**_ _._

He swallows and finishes all he can of his splinters, making clumsy work of it as he sways gently in the fast-moving police vehicle. As he works, he clings to the most important, pertinent facts, working hard to focus on _them,_ and not on the images from his childhood trying the push their way to the forefront of his memory.

He is, after all, alive.

His best friend and his daughter are alive.

Molly is alive.

Mrs. Hudson, Greg, his brother, his sister, their parents – all alive.

 _Alive, alive, alive._

And if his two-year stint dismantling Moriarty's network had taught him anything, it was that coming out _alive_ was the first step toward winning.

And so, after a moment, Sherlock holds out his hands to John - who is waiting patiently with a dressing for his hands – and the great detective sighs, and drops his head, and nods.

* * *

After Sherlock is dropped at Molly's place, he spends two minutes picking the lock to her flat with the tools he conveniently borrowed from an officer at Musgrave. A lump rises in his throat as he realizes that his key to Molly's was sitting on his mantle in a bowl, and that it is probably part of a melted ball of metal, now. He clears his throat and blinks quickly to refocus on the task at hand, not allowing himself to think of the probability of ever earning another key from Molly again.

He locks the door behind him, and nearly trips over Toby in the darkness. He lets out a startled curse, heart beating wildly, and frowns as Toby jumps onto the top of the couch, staring him down in the dim light.

Sherlock turns on all the lights, attempting to keep the dark hopelessness growing in his chest at bay, and begins the task of removing all of the cameras from Molly Hooper's flat.

He does her bedroom last, and can't help but shiver at the memory of the last time he was in that particular room. Then – it was a safe haven, a place where he could let down his guard. Now – now he feels like an outsider, unwelcome and intrusive, and he fights the bile rising in his throat as he rifles through everything.

He stops halfway through her closet when he sees his spare clothes, and closes his eyes against the sudden prick of tears and burning in his sinuses, choking down a frustrated sob. The only thing keeping him from punching a hole in the closet door is the thought that that would just be one more thing he'd have to apologize to Molly for; one more thing he'd have to fix.

Before he leaves, he places the bowl full of cameras on Molly's counter for Mycroft's people to deal with tomorrow, pocketing one for his own research purposes, and refills Toby's food and water dishes. He approaches the cat, who is still perched on the back of the couch, tail flicking lazily as he observes the man before him.

Sherlock holds out his hand, and Toby sniffs it disinterestedly, before butting his head against the bruised fingers.

Sherlock scratches the cat's ears and strokes his soft fur, eyes faraway. After a moment, his fingers still on Toby's back, and the cat meows in protest, and moves to place his head under the gentle hand once again.

Sherlock blinks and refocuses on the feline, a rueful smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Well. This may be good-bye, though I … _think_ I am embarking on an effort to be… welcome here again. I…well. You have been….first-class. I suppose. For a cat."

Toby purrs as Sherlock pats his head one last time, business-like – and then he is gone.

* * *

Molly wakes with a start, the memory of her dreams already growing dim. She's left with a feeling of general unease, though it takes her a moment to remember why. She looks down in relief to find that Rosie is still cuddled closely on her chest, drool making a dark path down the front of her jumper. Molly cautiously sits up, blinking and giving herself a moment to collect her thoughts and check that nothing important has fallen asleep.

After a moment, she shifts carefully and stands, cradling Rosie against her.

Molly puts the child in her crib, double checking to make sure the baby monitor is on, and grabs the receiver off the dresser before making her way downstairs again. She's three steps from the bottom when the handle on the front door jiggles softly, and turns, and Molly freezes in panic as it opens.

John shuffles in, closing the door behind him, and looks up at Molly's sigh of relief.

They stare at each-other for a moment, Molly's eyes wide, John's blinking uncertainly. The only light comes from the lamp in the living room corner Molly had left on, and it's hard to make out the other's expression.

"Molly," he says after a moment, and he sounds surprised. Or – relieved?

"John," she says abruptly, and stops herself. She takes the last three steps down the stairs, and stops a few meters in front of him. He shifts side to side on his feet, and Molly suddenly feels very awkward. "Sorry-" she begins, and crosses her arms in front of her, still clutching the baby monitor. "Didn't Anthea or – or Greg tell you I'd be here?" She waits a beat, and then continues on when he doesn't answer. "Because after – after everything, she thought – and I mean, I agreed – but, we thought it would be best to pick Rosie up from Hank and Nina's – I hope you don't mind…we – we fell asleep, in the recliner, and I've only just put her in her crib, and-"

"-Molly," he interrupts, and his shoulders sag as he rubs his face, and then – the back of his neck. "Thank you."

She bites her lip to keep herself from saying anything else, and steps just a bit closer to take him in.

He looks worse than she feels, and that's saying something.

John meets her gaze, his hand still rubbing the back of his neck, stretching his shoulders a bit. "Seriously, _thank you."_

Molly nods uncertainly after a moment. "Well – of course. I'll always help out with Rosie, you know that."

But he gives her a grim smile and shakes his head slightly. "No. Not just with that. You – you and Greg – you two probably saved my life tonight. Saved all our lives. He told me – he told us that you and your team at Bart's – and Donovan and his unit – well. He told us that you all figured out some sort of connection between two murders, and then Anthea came in and…did what she does. Didn't get to talk to him long, and it's still all a bit murky, to me - but thank you."

She uncrosses her arms, then, to pick at the cuffs of her jumper. Something hard and uncertain crosses her face, and she looks off to the side. "What happened today, John?"

John slowly draws in a long breath, and holds it for a moment before letting it out just as slowly. He then stares at his feet for a long while, breathing evenly, and Molly finds herself wondering if she's triggered something in asking.

But then he answers her. "Molly," he says, and then straightens up to look her in the eye, and his voice gets stronger and more commanding. Molly sees the soldier in him very much right now, and her own posture moves to mimic his own. "You deserve to know everything that happened today. And I _promise_ you, you will, yeah? But-" he falters for a moment, and blinks, and then his focus is back on her. "But part – part of what happened today isn't my place to tell." He snorts. "Mycroft would actually argue that none of it is my place to tell, and while this one isn't getting a blog post, I'm sure as hell telling you about it." He looks her in the eye, and she nods slowly, her eyebrows raised at his change of tone.

He clears his throat and continues. "But – tomorrow, yeah?" He looks at her expectantly, and she smiles uncertainly at him, not sure if she's trying to reassure him or herself.

"All right," she agrees.

He moves to pass by her, and she catches a whiff of stale water and musty earth and smoke, and she can't help but turn toward him as he goes.

"Should – I should just go home then, and see you tomorrow?" She asks uncertainly, not knowing what he prefers, after today – and her eye catches the clock over the stove and she registers that it's near two in the morning.

"No." He freezes and turns back to her, and hesitation plays over his face. "No, stay here tonight. Please. It's late."

She nods. "Okay. Thanks."

He nods, and is about to turn around again, when she can no longer keep back the question that is burning a hole through her.

"Is he okay?"

John blinks for a moment and sighs.

She tries again. "Sherlock. Is he okay?"

He meets her gaze, and she is surprised by the flare of protectiveness she sees in it. "I'm only going to say this once, because who knows how he'll pull himself together by the time he faces us tomorrow…I'm not sure how he'll…well…but…" he rubs a hand over his face, and when he continues, his voice is low. "What happened today nearly destroyed him, Molly, and I doubt he'll ever be exactly what he was…before."

She is frozen, staring at him, worry gnawing at her like a sickness in her chest, but he gives her a grim smile. "It could go either way. Either he'll bottle everything up again – and I'm going to make it hard as hell for him to do that – and he'll be more of a machine than he ever was, and it will ruin him. Or he'll face the absolute hell that happened, and come out a better man."

Silence falls between them, and even the air in the dark room feels heavy.

John sighs. "It's like…when a bone breaks, and heals incorrectly, and it has to be broken again in order to be set properly and heal fully. He's – this is the second break. Hopefully, this time…" He looks up at her, expression urging her to understand, and to accept what he's giving her, for the moment. "But…tomorrow. Right?"

Molly shakes her head and snaps out of her thoughts. "Right," she agrees weakly. "Tomorrow."

John nods, and hesitates for a moment before turning to head up the stairs. He pauses halfway up and shakes his head a little, and turns to Molly with an expression of sudden, sheepish clarity on his face. "Do you – do you need pajamas?"

She blinks once in surprise, and looks down at her rumpled clothing.

"Because – I still have some of Mary's things. All of Mary's things, actually. Do you – do you want a pair of her pajamas?"

Even though a pair of clean pajamas sounds heavenly, she's really not sure she should accept. "Oh – um, thanks, but – I'll be okay-"

"Molly." She's still looking down at her clothes, but something in his voice makes her look up at him. He looks strange, and it makes her miss Mary, and the familiarity of that ache easily moves up to replace the hurricane of emotions she's experienced the past forty-eight hours. "If Mary were here, and offered you a pair of her pajamas to borrow, would you accept them?"

She stares at him for a moment, and then nods.

"Wait here." He runs up the stairs, and is back in less than five minutes, handing her a pair of pajama pants and a large T-shirt.

"Thanks," she whispers.

And despite it all, she is still laying on the couch awake after hearing him take a shower, comfort a fussing Rosie, and crawl into his own bed.

Eventually, though, exhaustion overtakes her, and even thoughts and worries and doubts about the events of the past two days are not enough to keep her from slumber.

* * *

She's asleep when he comes in. On the couch. She is curled on her side, one arm curled around a throw pillow she's pulled close to her chest, a quilt pulled up around her shoulders and tucked in by her feet.

He closes the door quietly behind him, never breaking eye contact with her form on the couch in the dark lounge. He barely breathes, almost terrified of waking her, and a phantom, aching mix of dread and desire arises – it wells up from within him, and crashes around him – internal and external.

 _He can't do this._

 _He wants, more than anything, to delete the past day from both of their minds. To go back to the way it was before - because that was familiar, and comfortable – where he would bask in her light, returning to it time after time - never realizing that her love for him was the source of it all._

 _He can't face her, he can't tell her the truth – he can't tell her that it_ _ **was**_ _the truth, but he didn't realize it until that moment. He can't get her hopes up, only to let her down. He's rubbish at relationships. His track record is enough to prove that._

 _He can't tell her a lie, he can't tell her that he didn't mean it. He can't watch her face crumple in barely visible ways – little signs that he can see that tell him she is hurt, and sad, and disappointed, because of him. He can't stand the idea of change – he's relied on her stability and reassurance for so long. He can't stand the idea of remaining unchanged – because now that he_ _ **knows**_ _\- she deserves more than what he's given her in the past. She deserves whatever affection he can give her, rare though it may be. She deserves to feel appreciated and wanted and loved in return. He doesn't want to lose her – and he doesn't want to lose himself. He's damned if he does, damned if he doesn't._

And yet – the chaos in his mind – the swirling mix of sweet relief that she is alive and okay and _here_ and the horrifying reality that he almost _lost_ her, that he may still _lose_ her – simply confirms that he loves her.

And so he decides that he will wait. In the morning, perhaps he'll have a better idea of just what it is he feels, and just what it is he wants. In the morning, if she is still here – if she will hear him out – if she will listen, and give him a chance – perhaps he'll have worked out how to _explain_ what it is he feels and what it is he wants.

* * *

He doesn't.

He has not even begun to unpack the emotional baggage of the day before, the fear of being buried beneath it preventing him from even trying, and he doesn't know what he wants.

He doesn't know what he wants with Molly – except that he knows he _doesn't_ want to lose her company – and he's frustrated with himself, because he thinks she deserves better than that.

And if John's gruff good morning, offer of a shower, and instructions to join he, Molly, and Rosie for breakfast and 'a talk' are any indication of what the ex-army soldier has in mind, he's in for a very difficult morning.

Still, his best friend's last words before he leaves the guest room echo through his mind.

" _She deserves to know the truth. And so do you."_

Perhaps it's that he is too physically and emotionally spent to argue, or perhaps it's that he's grown up a bit overnight – but he doesn't even think of escaping through the bathroom window.

* * *

Molly wakes with a start to the sound of running water.

She pauses, breath erratic and heavy for a moment, and blinks until she can see clearly that she is still on John's couch, tangled in a spare quilt. She sits up slowly, taking in the sound of the shower running above her, and quiets her breathing.

"Morning."

She turns, brushing her hair out of her face, still blinking sleep away from her eyes.

John gives her a brisk nod from the kitchen, where he is making coffee and, from the sound and smell of things – toast, beans, and eggs, as well. Rosie, still in her pajamas, is sitting in her high chair and attempting to put soft pieces of banana in her mouth.

"Morning," she answers warily.

"You like beans and toast, right? How do you like your eggs?" John's tone is not cheerful, but his no-nonsense start to the day reminds her of their conversation from the night before, and the one that is imminent now, and her stomach turns over. She realizes that the person in the shower above must be Sherlock, and she takes a deep breath.

"Mmm…yes to the beans and toast…and just one egg, scrambled, for me. D'you need help with anything?" She asks, smoothing her pajamas over and reaching for the hoody that John left for her at the foot of the couch. She pulls it on and runs her hands through her hair in an attempt to manage the mess, and when she looks up, John is looking at her strangely.

He shakes his head, and gives her a tight smile. "No, thanks. There's the half bath around the stairs down here, if you'd…you know. Want to freshen up. Not that you need it, just-"

"That sounds perfect," she interrupts, and folds the quilt neatly at the foot of the couch before heading the bathroom.

She finds a spare towel that she uses to wash her face, and some toothpaste in the medicine cabinet. It's not glamorous, but she uses her finger to brush, and feels much cleaner afterward. She takes a few more moments to braid her hair, using the hair tie still on her wrist from yesterday, and though it's a far cry from what she'd like to wear to face this day – it is leaps better than what she felt like moments ago.

Molly nods grimly at her reflection in the mirror, dread growing in her stomach, and returns to the kitchen.

Sherlock is already sitting at the table, beside Rosie, and it makes Molly stop in her tracks. He's looking at his phone (of course), but she notices that for once – his fingers are not moving across the screen in a frenzy. He is simply staring at the screen, unblinking, his phone resting in one bandaged hand. She's very aware that a dark look passes over her face at the sight of him, but she composes herself and focuses on John.

"Plates?" She asks, and he looks up at her. "Do you want me to set plates?" She asks quietly.

"Ah." He looks quickly between her and Sherlock, and then nods to the counter, where he's already begun spooning eggs and beans onto the plates. "Well, if you want to get the coffee ready, I'll finish with the toast, and – and we can get started."

She nods, and busies herself making the coffees. Cream and sugar for her, black with two spoonfuls of sugar for Sherlock, and – "how do you like yours, John?" She asks.

"Oh – cream, no sugar, thanks."

She nods and finishes, bringing John and Sherlock's to the table. She sets Sherlock's before him, and his eyes flicker from his phone to her hand on the cup, and then back up to her face. He quickly looks away, but not before his own face tightens in – _shame? Distress?_ He is trying _very_ hard to hide his feelings today – not that she blames him. She's trying hard herself to keep it all together – and the fact that he's obviously in pain because of what happened yesterday softens her even more, and her heart aches for the both of them. For all of them.

She returns to the counter for her own cup of coffee, and John brings the plates to the table as well. The friends sit in silence, chewing and swallowing, occasionally making a falsely cheerful remark to Rosie. Molly compliments John on the beans and toast, and he apologizes for the state of the eggs.

"Eggs were Mary's thing," he explains, and then there is silence again.

After John has cleaned Rosie up and placed her in the living room with some toys to play, when everyone has finished (Sherlock, surprisingly, has eaten his toast and a few bites of beans) and is stirring the dregs of their coffees and avoiding eye contact, John sits back down and clears his throat.

"So."

Molly and Sherlock glance at each other, and then to John.

"Yesterday was the second worst day of my life. It was absolute bloody shit. How did it rank for you two?"

Molly and Sherlock both frown in surprise. John looks between them expectantly. Evidently, he thinks he'll get more out of Molly (no surprise there), and he turns his gaze to her.

She swallows, and stifles a nervous laugh. "Um. Well. It's pretty high up there, as far as bad days go."

John inclines his head, encouraging more.

"Probably…probably…" she trails off and thinks for a moment, and then looks up with a determined set to her lips. "Third worst, for me. Tied with the day Sherlock jumped." She nods to Sherlock seriously, a challenge in her eyes. He tilts his head, expression unreadable – except for the slight tightening of his brow and widening of his eyes.

"Third?" He asks, and his voice is calm and low.

"Third," she confirms quietly. "The day dad died was the worst. The day mum died was the second. Yesterday – yesterday was third. It was – it _was_ absolute shit."

He nods, and then looks between John and Molly. They look at him expectantly, and he frowns and turns his attention to the phone in his hand.

"Nope." John states emphatically, popping the 'p'. He stands up and whisks the phone out of Sherlock's hands and places it on the windowsill – which wasn't a difficult feat, as he really wasn't holding onto it that tightly.

Sherlock's frown deepens as he stares at his empty hands, and then glares up at his best friend. (They're not entirely sure if he means to, but Sherlock looks very lost at the moment, and the uneasy panic in his expression makes both John and Molly's soften.)

"We agreed," John adds quietly, and Sherlock takes a deep breath, and pulls his coffee cup back towards him, giving his hands something else to wrap around. After a moment, he nods.

"Worst." He says quietly, and Molly has to strain to hear him.

"What?" She asks before she can stop herself. _Out of all the days he's had – jumping off of Bart's, leaving John, being tortured, getting shot, loosing Mary, nearly dying – after all of that – yesterday was the worst for him?_

He levels a serious look at her. "Worst," he confirms, and leaves it at that.

Her lips part, just a bit - and she nods, before pressing them together again.

"Well," John continues, nodding at his friend. "Now that we've established it was bloody awful for all of us, let's get to filling in the blank spots, mmm? We still don't know how you and Greg figured out where to find us, Molly, and… I'm sure you've got a lot of questions as well, yeah?" He looks at her, and she nods.

"So…" he trails off, and looks to Sherlock expectantly. The man in question presses his lips into a fine line, and studies the pattern of crumbs on the table in front of him.

( _It's not that he's trying to be difficult – this – just – being here, with both of them – John watching, Molly waiting, apologies burning on his tongue, the old habit of turning off emotion failing miserably – he is afraid that if he stops concentrating on_ _ **keeping it together**_ _it will all come out and in his honesty and inexperience he'll disappoint John and ruin everything with Molly.)_

After a moment of silence, Molly sighs, and begins. "Let's start with the explosion."

This earns her an open look from John, and a guarded glance from Sherlock.

"What about it?"

Molly's anxiety spikes, amped with the frustration that despite an awkward breakfast she still has no more answers than she had the day before – and when she speaks, her voice is tempered with sarcasm. "Oh, I don't know – who did it? Why? Did it have something to do with the blood you borrowed 'for Mycroft' the night before? Why didn't _any_ of you – _any of you, John_ – why didn't anyone think to call or even text me and let me know that you were _not dead_? I thought-" her voice breaks, just a bit, and she places her head in her hands to keep them from wildly gesticulating. She takes a deep breath, and looks up to stare hard at John, because this complaint is more for him than for Sherlock. "I didn't know if Rosie was all right, or if – or if I needed to – to take care of her."

A shadow passes across John's face at that, and he nods. "Right." He blinks for a moment, looking down, and then at Rosie in the next room, and then at Molly again. "You're absolutely right. And…I'm sorry. I don't have a good excuse. I knew she was safe, and that she was taken care of for a few days, but I should have let you know. I'm sorry. If there's ever a situation like that again…I'll let you know."

She nods tersely in acceptance of his apology.

He sits back and rubs the back of his neck. "As for your other questions – yes, it did have to do with the blood we borrowed for Mycroft. Um - he was our client -"

She snorts at the idea, but both men frown at her. "It's the truth," John insists. "He was our client. He didn't realize it until…after we used the blood. We had to persuade him a bit, to see us. He needed our help, though he didn't admit it until the patience grenade arrived."

"That's what blew up Baker Street then?" Molly asks, ignoring the strange comment on the blood for now - though she already got confirmation of the grenade through Greg and Anthea.

"Yes."

"Who sent it?" She asks patiently. She directs this question at Sherlock, and she and John wait for him to answer it. He does not move, simply continues to push toast crumbs around the tabletop with his fingers, breathing evenly and apparently trying for all the world to avoid looking at Molly.

John opens his mouth to reply after a moment, obviously disappointed in his friend, but Molly jumps in before he can.

"Was it the woman who killed John's therapist - ?"

Both men look sharply at her then, and she feels a grim sort of satisfaction at their reaction. Apparently, Greg didn't get to tell them much last night.

" –and my neighbor?"

Sherlock stiffens at that, and if he was avoiding looking at her before – he's certainly making up for it now. His eyes darken and he drinks her in, hungry for information. But there's something else there – a barely concealed fear, a lightly masked suffering – and it makes Molly bite her tongue. Her desire for all the answers, now, is dampened by the knowledge that the information she wants will cause them all pain.

"Your _neighbor_?" John asks, sitting forward, concerned.

She looks between them for a moment, and nods. "Greg told you we saw a connection between two murders?"

John nods in confirmation, but Sherlock is still staring at her, statuesque.

"Well…" she hesitates, and takes a breath, twisting her hands in her lap and staring at her cup of coffee, collecting her thoughts. "Greg saw the connection, really. My neighbor – Adrien Girard, lived three doors down – was found murdered yesterday. Strangled and shoved in an airing cupboard. He realized it was similar to a murder his coworker had investigated the day before, and asked for permission to work with DI Peters on the case."

She pauses for a moment, wondering how to insert herself into the story – but it's Sherlock who interrupts her thoughts and asks.

"Lestrade said _you_ called in some favors, too. Why do that for a neighbor you barely see?"

His voice is hoarse, and when she looks at him, her breath catches at the wild look in his eyes. She bites her lip and casts a sideways look to John, whose unsettled expression also makes her feel a bit sick to her stomach.

"Well…" Molly looks around for something to focus on, before settling on her coffee cup once more. "Because I was pretty sure I'd met the murderer."

She doesn't even need to look at their faces to see that she's shocked them both. It feels like the air has suddenly left the room, and she continues, trying to get it out as quickly as possible. _Perhaps it's like a band-aid, and the quicker it comes off, the better?_

"See, a few weeks ago, a woman about my age moved in with Mr. Girard. Said he'd had a stroke and that she was his granddaughter, Trish, and she'd come to help him recover. What I mean is, I know he had a stroke – all the neighbors did – and we knew he'd come home, and I didn't question her. She seemed…well…she was nice. Talked to me by the mailboxes or outside the door a few times, you know. Friendly stuff – weather, how are you, that sort of thing. And then one day – it was after the night you stayed over-" she nods in Sherlock's general direction, afraid if she looks at him fully in the face, she won't get it all out. "-she came over with a goody basket and we had tea."

She hears an intake of breath from John, and a strangled, guttural noise from Sherlock's general direction.

( _Because she had TEA she had TEA she had TEA his psychopathic murdering sister invited herself in to Molly's HOME and had TEA and she was ALONE with Molly…)_

Swallowing, she presses on. "She was very nosy and after our conversation I avoided her, until this past Thursday – she came up to me as I was getting home, and thanked me for my help, which I thought was weird, and gave me a bracelet as a present." Molly laughs bitterly to herself. "I thought she was leaving because Mr. Girard was _better_. Turns out she was leaving because she _killed him._ _And_ John's therapist."

She braves a look at John, and he is looking between her and Sherlock, a deep frown etched on his face. She gives him a tiny, strained smile. "And so I called in some favors to try to find out who the neighbor-murdering psychopath was, and then Greg ran the fingerprints he found, and his team found some strange photographs that I'm now convinced are of Sherlock's family, and Anthea came in because the fingerprints matched those of a criminal genius who was meant to be locked away in some place called Sherrinford, and -"

She's on a roll, now, and is in great danger of just verbally vomiting her entire emotional experience of the past two days, when Sherlock stands so abruptly from the table that his chair falls back with a loud _crash_.

She stops talking and stares at him, wide-eyed. When her gaze meets his, he physically turns his whole body away from her, as though looking at her burns him. He takes two steps to the counter, and presses his hands flat against it, leaning over it. She can see him trembling from where she sits, and hears more than sees him bump against a drawer that is stuck partway open, from some sort of utensil John shifted around while making breakfast earlier.

Sherlock steps back just enough to push the drawer closed with his hand, but it quickly bounces back open. Apparently, it is the last straw for him. He stares at it for moment, and then he proceeds to slam the drawer closed with all the strength he can muster.

 _SLAM._

 _SLAM._

 _SLAM._

She looks at John then, their faces mirror images of worry.

 _SLAM._

 _SLAM._

 _SLAM._

They both stand to intervene as Rosie starts to cry.

 _SLAM._

With that last slam, a great cracking noise is heard – whatever spoon or spatula was preventing the drawer from closing completely has been soundly destroyed – and the drawer closes completely, at last.

* * *

Rosie's wails pierce the startled silence, but they are all frozen there.

Sherlock – previously stiff as board, even in his abuse of John's cabinetry – suddenly melts, elbows hitting countertop, and head burying into his hands. Something that sounds frighteningly close to a sob escapes him, and he shudders.

Molly looks to John, wide-eyed, and he blinks and suddenly straightens. "Molly," he says quietly. "Molly…I think I need to take Rosie for a walk." He looks at her meaningfully and inclines his head toward the living room. "Do you think you could go get her ready for me?"

She swallows, looking apprehensively toward Sherlock, and nods. "Sure…um…sure."

After she has taken the baby upstairs to get her changed and dressed - Rosie's tears giving way to soft hiccups and then quiet coos - John moves to Sherlock.

He says nothing for a long moment – simply stands shoulder-to-shoulder with the man.

"Sherlock," he says quietly, and brushes his shoulder against Sherlock's.

Sherlock lets out a long, shuddering sigh, and after a slight pause, lifts his head from his hands, clasping them on the counter in front of him. He swallows, and takes in a steadying breath, visibly attempting to pull himself together.

"I'm obviously no consulting detective." John continues softly – he can hear the faint sound of Molly cheerfully narrating Rosie's outfit choices somewhere above them. "I was dead wrong about Irene, wasn't I?"

Sherlock frowns and glances at John, but makes no move to confirm or deny.

"But I think I'd like to try again. Here's what I've observed-" John lifts a finger as he makes each point – "you wanted to make sure your sister hadn't asked about Molly, and tried to protect her from this whole mess. You destroyed her coffin. Your first thought after… your sister last night was to go sweep Molly's flat, and you came back and sat through a miserable breakfast in an attempt to make things right with her. You just destroyed my cookware because you found out your sister had tea with her. You told her you loved her to save her, and – here's the thing, Sherlock - _I think you meant it_." He stops to study his friend, and is apparently satisfied by his lack of protest.

"So," he continues quietly, "I'm going to take Rosie for walk. Maybe – maybe it was a mistake to try and – facilitate – whatever. I'm taking Rosie for a walk, yeah? And – you and Molly are going to talk. When I come back, I can tell her anything she needs to know about what happened yesterday, if it's too hard for you…anything except what she probably wants - _needs_ \- to know the most." He gives Sherlock a pointed, searching look.

Sherlock shrugs and sighs before nodding slightly.

"Good man," John says, nudging him gently and giving him a grim smile.

Sherlock snorts, and Molly comes in with Rosie dressed and ready for her walk.

John thanks her and after a moment's hesitation, she takes his spot by Sherlock's side at the counter. The two of them listen as John wrestles with the stroller by the front door, straps his daughter in, and leaves.

Both Sherlock and Molly study the countertop intently. It's scattered with coffee grounds, crumbs, and a variety of other remnants from breakfast.

"John's a messy cook," Molly observes lamely, breaking the silence.

Sherlock swallows and darts a glance at her, his lips twitching slightly. He frowns, and then clears his throat.

"Eurus." He says quietly, and Molly looks up at him, surprised.

"What?"

"The woman – the one who sent the – the one who blew up Baker Street, and killed-" he swallows again – "the therapist and your neighbor – her name is Eurus."

He pauses a moment, and she nods in acknowledgment.

"She's my sister. I apparently erased and rewrote my childhood memories of her because of trauma."

He studies her out of the corner of his eye, then, and she gives him another nod and a tight smile of encouragement.

"You don't seem surprised." But he does.

She turns back to stare at the empty can of beans on the countertop. "There were photos," she explains in a whisper. "They looked – they looked sort of like you, and maybe Mycroft, and there was a girl in most of them, too. The Yard found them in my neighbor's house."

"Ah." It's his turn to nod, now.

She nods more vigorously in response, until she stops abruptly, because she feels that she's starting to look like a bobblehead.

"She – it was her who made me call. Yesterday." He says softly, and his voice is laced with regret. He blinks rapidly, and turns toward her, just a bit. "I'm sorry. I'm – so, so sorry, Molly. She said-"

"I forgive you," Molly interrupts quietly, and looks up to meet his eyes with her own.

He stops abruptly, and his mouth moves for a moment, before he frowns. "What?"

"I forgive you," she repeats. "It wasn't your fault – the phone call, anyway - and – I forgive you."

He seems to be struggling with the concept, and his mouth twitches in the corner again. "I thought she was going to kill you, unless – I made you say it." He presses on. "And I never – Molly-" he runs his hands through his hair. Almost in sync, they turn so they face each other.

"-Molly, you have to know – I know, in the past, I was-" he sighs in frustration, and she waits patiently – uncertainly. "Ever since Moriarty, I have always tried to – _not_ hurt you. I have never wanted to hurt you, Molly Hooper. I – want you to be _happy._ " His voice is raw and sincere.

She gives him a small, lopsided smile. "I know," she says softly. Her eyes run over him, up and down, and her smile falls away as she turns away, back to the countertop.

He swallows uncertainly. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong. I just-" she glances at him again – "Did you clean out all of your clothes from my closet?"

Understanding and mild dismay crosses his face. "No. No! I – I went to your flat last night to – start fixing – things - and – while I was there I took a change of clothes – Baker Street is – well - most of my clothes, while most likely not destroyed by fire, are saturated with smoke and water, and-"

"It's fine, Sherlock," she interrupts again, and gives him a tight smile. "It's good, in fact." She nods, as if convincing herself of it, and continues, stronger and braver. "You can come get the rest sometime later today, or tomorrow, if you want. Or I can bring them over to John's sometime. I assume you'll be staying with him until Baker Street is back to normal?"

A strange look passes over his face, and he hesitates.

( _Because his first thought is that he'd rather stay with her, and doesn't that say something about what he wants? But she just said it was good to get his things out of her flat - and so maybe, maybe what he thought she wanted isn't at all what she wants-)_

"You should take your clothes back, Sherlock," she states seriously. "That's – it's something – having spare clothes at my flat, keeping your things there – usually boyfriends do that sort of thing, Sherlock, and you're not my boyfriend." It's not said with sadness or wistfulness, it is simply a fact – one that she conveys with gentleness and finality.

 _(No, he's not, is he? He never wanted to be something like that. Relationships. Not his area. So - why isn't he relieved?)_

He blinks at her, and his chest heaves with a sudden intake of breath, and her heart breaks all over again. She forgives him, completely – but this mess of a relationship she's found herself in is as much her fault as it is his, and she needs to start fixing it, so that they can't hurt each other like this anymore.

"You're still welcome to come over," she says brightly, blinking a bit too rapidly herself. "Even stay the night, once in a while, if Rosie or John are making it hard to think. Just – call, or text, or knock first, like all my other friends. No more picking my locks, please." Her tone is light, but he can tell she is dead serious.

He nods slowly in agreement. "I am sorry," he repeats miserably, and he looks lost.

She nods in acknowledgment, and after a moment, she sighs. "What did you need to fix?"

He raises his eyebrows, and she shakes her head. "At my place – what did you need to fix?"

He presses his lips into a thin line, and takes her in for a moment. "Cameras."

"Cameras?" She blanches, and her stomach turns over at the thought.

Sherlock abruptly turns and begins pulling out mugs and tea, and Molly frowns. "What-"

"I think…tea will help with this next bit. For both of us," he amends.

"Oh. Right."

As he takes out the kettle and fills it with water, he looks sidelong at her. "I was the reason you weren't having a good day yesterday, wasn't I?"

She sighs and grimaces to herself, before snorting. "Well, it wasn't _just_ you," she says graciously.

He waits expectantly.

"My sister called again. Twice." She smiles an uneven sort of smile.

He blinks, and his lips twitch upward for the first time all morning, concentrating on rifling through the tea options. "She sounds about as pleasant as Mycroft on a diet."

Molly laughs, short and clear. "That sounds about right."

And Molly proceeds to clear off the table as Sherlock makes them both tea. As she does, she fills in the rest of her day, fully explaining the role she, Greg, and Anthea played in saving Sherlock and John from Musgrave. By the time she's loaded the dishwasher with the breakfast dishes and wiped down the table and Rosie's high chair, Sherlock has a steaming mug of tea in each hand. They sit down beside each other at the table, hands wrapped around warm cups, and Molly, through habit, leans over her to inhale the sweet steam rising off the tea.

She sits back in surprise at the scent, and brings the cup hesitantly to her lips, blowing on it a bit before taking a sip. As soon as the familiar taste hits her tongue, she looks at Sherlock, startled.

A memory slips up, unbidden – _a snowy day, her mother fixes everyone tea and muffins for breakfast as a treat – the black tea is heavy with milk and cinnamon and sugar, with just a bit of vanilla added for extra flavor._

She'd had this tea regularly as a child – it was her favorite. As her life changed, so did her preferred flavor of tea – but she still made this particular kind, sometimes, when she was particularly lonely or nostalgic, especially for her mother. It had been about a year since she'd last tasted it, though.

Some emotion Molly cannot place flickers across Sherlock's face, and he offers her a sad, brief smile. "Deduction," he explains, almost apologetically.

She shakes her head. "No – no – it's – nice. Thank you."

She takes another sip and then turns toward him more fully. "So," she says seriously. "Start at the beginning."

He gives her a grim smile at that, and looks down at the cup of tea in his own hands. "Then I think we should start the night before last."

* * *

He tells her, then, about everything – starting with the fact that Eurus had masqueraded not only as Molly's neighbor, but as John's therapist and as Faith Smith, as well. (He leaves out the woman on the bus, as it's really not pertinent to his particular story.) He explains about finding John unconscious at his therapists', about scaring Mycroft into telling the truth, the grenade, and sneaking into Sherrinford. He tells her about meeting his sister, and how she'd managed to take over the prison, designing a 'game' for them to play right out of a horror movie. He explains about the Governor and his wife, and the three Garrideb brothers, and about the coffin. He keeps his explanation of the phone call brief and to the point, and that is when she takes his hand.

It is a simple gesture of friendship and empathy – just laying her hand atop his – but he pauses, and swallows, and places his free hand so that hers is sandwiched comfortably between his.

 _(It is easier than he thought it would be. Emotions rise up, but the relaying of facts is something he's familiar with, and he plows through well enough.)_

When he finishes relating the previous day's events – and the revelation of the truth about Redbeard and Victor Trevor – he looks up to find tears streaming down her face. He frowns, distressed, and squeezes her hand almost instinctively.

She takes in a shuddering breath, and tries to smile at him, though it just makes her look more pitiful. "I'm sorry," she breathes, and her hand tightens around his own.

He cannot help but stare at her, in all her empathy and sorrow, and his heart constricts in his chest, yet again, at how close he was to loosing her – and he sits in wonder at how quickly she forgave him, and moved toward restoring their friendship – _albeit with boundaries he's not sure if he likes._

Still, it's the best possible case scenario, isn't it?

It's what he wanted last night – what he still wanted this morning – for everything to _go back to the way it was._ They are friends, better friends – and that's _all._ No strings attached. Best case scenario, for everyone. Molly stays safe, he stays unattached, everything is comfortable.

 _Then why does he feel so unsatisfied?_

"You have nothing to be sorry for," he says softly, giving her a small, slightly disbelieving smile.

She shakes her head, and removes her hand from his to wipe her eyes.

He feels strangely empty without her touch.

"I know. I'm sorry you had to go through all that. No one should – no one should have to experience that. And I mean – I _am_ sorry I made it worse, for you yesterday. On the phone. I didn't know." Molly says plainly.

He sits forward then, and his heartbeat raises rapidly. He feels a bit sick to his stomach at the thought, but the words are out of his mouth before he can even reconsider them.

 _She deserves to know the truth. And so do you._

"I meant it." He blurts out.

She looks up at him, and her face is suddenly guarded, and it twists something in his gut to think that she doesn't trust him – that she might not believe him, in this.

"I mean – I mean it," he continues. "I – care about you, Molly, and I – I do lo-"

"Don't say it." She stands abruptly and carries her empty mug to the sink, clutching it to her chest.

Something falls, inside him, and he turns so that he can see her profile more clearly. "What?" He asks, and he sounds stupid, especially to himself.

"Don't say it." She repeats firmly, and her lips twitch sadly at the corner. She takes a deep breath, and sets her mug in the sink, and nods, looking at him out of the corner of her eye. "I mean – I know you do. You do care about me – love me, even – in your own way-" she nods forcefully – "and I – I see that. I've known since you apologized to me that Christmas. You never apologize. Not sincerely. But you did to me. And – there's more things, lots of little things…" She smiles tightly, but it's more to herself than directed toward Sherlock.

"So I know you do," she continues, moving around the counter with purpose, now, cleaning up what remains of their breakfast, propelling herself through the conversation with the physical distraction of rinsing out bean cans and washing up egg pans. Her voice rises in pitch as she goes. "But it's – it's not the same, is it? It's not the same as how I care for you." Her voice breaks just a little bit at that, and she pauses.

"Molly-" Sherlock breathes, and there is an ache in his chest again, the one that reminds him just how much of a heart he has – and just how much of it belongs to Molly.

"I know it's not," she continues, and his words die on his tongue.

 _Because he certainly can't argue with that. It hasn't been the same for him. Not until yesterday. And looking at the evidence of his treatment of her, it's not surprising that she's come to this conclusion._

"And if – if you just start – saying it – then it will just remind me that it's not the same. And it…that _hurts._ So don't say it." She stops cleaning for a moment and looks up at him – resolute brown eyes meeting distressed, icy blue. "Don't say it unless-" she catches herself, and shakes her head, and gives him a small, pleading smile. "Just don't say it. Please."

He finds himself nodding in agreement, speechless, though he is screaming inside. He feels as though he is drowning, watching his lifeline float away, little by little, just out of his reach.

 _But something catches in his mind, a word – that one word –_ _ **unless.**_

He moves to stand beside her as she finishes wiping down the countertops, and he watches her out of the corner of his eye, unable to move any meaningful words past his lips.

She finishes with the countertop and sets the rag down, hands moving to twist the fabric of Mary's hoody in her hands. "I thought…" she whispers, and her voice is suddenly hoarse with emotion.

He feels panicky.

"I thought, that…when I told you…on the phone…I was afraid that…your opinion of me would change." She darts a look at him, and her mouth twists downward in an effort to keep from crying. "I thought you'd think everything I ever did was just…was just to win some sort of love that was never there in the first place. That you'd think I was pathetic."

 _No._ His brows draw together, the only sign that he is still screaming inside. _Never. Never._

"-that I'd be a…a chemical defect. On the losing side. A loser." She laughs bitterly at the juvenile term.

" _No,_ " he states emphatically. "No. I-"

"And I'm sorry, because this was – I never meant for this to be your problem. I know you don't _do_ things like this. And it's – that's – it's okay. But I want you to know that it's not – I didn't just – I _don't_ just do everything I do for you because…of that. You're my friend, and most – well – a lot of the things I do for you I'd have done for John or Mary, too. Meena and Greg, too, most of the time. Not – everything. _Lord_ , not everything. But – a lot of things. I want you to know that."

He nods miserably, and she steps away suddenly. She moves uncertainly, apparently as lost in her movements as he feels.

"Well, then," she says determinedly. "I guess Mycroft's people will be at my flat, soon. And I could use a change of clothes and a shower. So…let John know, for me, that-"

"Molly," he whispers desperately, and she turns to look at him, then. Something of what he's feeling must be showing in his face, because her look of strong determination falls away, replaced by a sadness that he truly understands.

He turns and steps toward her, arms at his sides, hands turned out toward her, just a bit – and – as she always does, she sees just what he needs.

She closes the gap between them quickly, wrapping her arms around his waist and turning her head to rest on his chest, just beside his heart. His own arms embrace her tightly, and he presses his face to her hair, breathing her in. His heart rate tilts up as she molds herself to him, each beat pushing the truth that has laid dormant in his veins for so long to the surface.

 _I love you._

 _I love you._

 _I love you._

For her, the embrace is a bittersweet confirmation of all she's always suspected to be the truth, but has avoided verifying because of _hope_ -

He loves her, deeply – as a friend. And that is all he'll ever be, though perhaps now – he'll be a better one. The best one, possibly.

She blinks against his chest, breathing him in and letting him go with each exhale.

For him, holding her is a bittersweet confirmation of a truth that he has steadfastly denied for the majority of his life.

He is capable of love, and he loves _her_ , deeply.

How ironic that he's realized this _now_. He's just gotten everything he wanted – a return to friendship with Molly Hooper, free of romantic attachments, everything almost exactly _the way it was_ – and yet – and yet –

He's gotten everything he wanted, but it's no longer what he wants.

And yet – one single word keeps him afloat, keeps him from drowning in the loss of _what might have been_ – keeps him hoping for _what might yet be_ –

 _Unless_.

* * *

 **A/N: I'm sorry you had to wait so long! Thank you for your continued fav's, follows, and reviews, and even some PMs in my absence. They really encouraged me to keep going. The reason for the delay, though, is very happy - we're expecting another baby in November! And the first trimester kicked my butt, big time. I'm feeling better now, though, and never fear - this story WILL BE COMPLETED BEFORE THE BABY COMES! (Smears war paint on in determination.)  
**

 **That being said, I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and I appreciate any feedback. I am really excited for the tables to be turned, and for Sherlock to be awkwardly pining after Molly for a bit. *evil grin* I thought Molly would forgive Sherlock fairly easily, considering what happened, but that this would also be her 'wake up call', as it were, to draw some firmer boundaries. I also wanted John to sort of step up and be a darn good friend again, and I think that would mean helping/forcing Sherlock to face what happened. I pretty much have the next two chapter written out (in my head). I just need the time to type them up. So basically - I make no promises on a time frame for updates, but as I said - the story will be complete by November, haha.**

 **Thanks again for your support!**


	9. The Road Less Traveled

**Chapter 9: The Road Less Traveled**

 _"Well, we all do silly things."_

-Molly Hooper, "A Scandal in Belgravia"

* * *

 _"Where's Molly?"_

 _"…"_

 _"Sherlock?"_

 _"She went home."_

 _"Huh - home?!…Did you…what did you tell her?"_

 _"I said that I meant it. She…told me not to say it. That she knows, but it's…not the same. So…we're…friends." He steeples his hands beneath his chin and glares at the faux gas fire in the fireplace.  
_

 _"Mmm." John rubs the back of his neck. "You're…friends."_

 _"Yep. Friends." He draws the word out particularly slowly._

 _"…you…look…are you…"_

 _"I am fine, John. She said 'unless'."_

Later that day, after Rosie is in bed and Sherlock is deep in his mind palace in the lounge below, John sits on the end of his bed. Sherlock had not elaborated on what he meant by any of his cryptic conversation, and John is left shaking his head in confusion at just how Sherlock managed to wind up on the one path John was certain was unavailable to him.

Losing Molly for good? Sure.

Having a go at a relationship with her? A possibility.

Ending up with things just like they were before, as if the whole Sherrinford phone call had never happened?

John hadn't thought it likely, not in a million years.

And needing some sort of release at the ludicrousness of it all - he can't help but laugh a little, and the sound is joined with laughter he's only heard in his mind since the aquarium incident.

He looks up, and there is Mary, leaning against the dresser and laughing softly with him, shaking her head fondly.

He stops and smiles tiredly at her, expression saddening just a bit - welcoming her memory, even if her presence is a bit…strong, in his mind, still. He supposes he'll have to start seeing a new therapist, now – but that can wait.

Mary smiles affectionately at him, and chuckles again.

"It _is_ a right mess, isn't it? He's like the eighth wonder of the world, sometimes."

"More like a train wreck," he mumbles – knowing she's not _really_ there – but needing to respond to her, just the same.

Mary shakes her head knowingly. "Of course, only _Sherlock Holmes_ could manage to be friend-zoned by a woman who actually _is_ in love with him."

* * *

Sherlock has over-analyzed his next encounter with her. Of course he has. He wonders just how much space one should be given in a situation like this, and estimates that two and a half days, precisely, is enough time for her to right herself after her harrowing experience, given their conversation. He shouldn't take her up on her offer to stay the night (he wants to), because that seems pushy, even to him. And though he wants _more_ – he still needs time to process just exactly what that entails. He loves her – he wants more than friendship – but how far is he willing to go, exactly? And if he's not willing to go all the way – he will not pursue her. Because she deserves someone who can give her exactly what she wants, and exactly what she deserves. He will either become that man – or let her find someone who is. (Preferably someone who doesn't offer 'meat dagger' as a viable option for a murder weapon.)

So – for their first post-discussion encounter, a familiar place, neutral, not intimate – and work fits that criteria the best. Loads of valid reasons (excuses) for coming to see her there. Bart's. Two and half days later.

Molly, however, is not the only person he is concerned about. She is the _easiest_ one to think about, perhaps because he actually _wants_ to see her - the most painful bit over, with her. But there is still Mycroft to see, and John to observe, and Mrs. Hudson to check up on, and…Eurus.

The day after the conversation with Molly, he and John check on Mrs. Hudson, and begin sifting through the wreckage at Baker Street. Somehow, there is already a note tacked to Mrs. Hudson's interior door with an estimate for a time frame to repair the damage at Baker Street (six weeks, maximum) and an estimate for the cost (already paid in full).

And thus, he ends up visiting Mycroft.

* * *

 **Not in the mood for tea at the Diogenes, then? – SH**

 **Working from home today. –MH**

Sherlock frowns at the quick reply from his brother.

Home is one place where Mycroft _rarely_ works, if he can help it. (Admittedly, he can't often help it, being the British Government.) Still, home is meant to be for the good brandy and silk slippers and downy duvets. Home is for _film noir_ and bonsai sculpting and reading _The Art of War_ in plush leather chairs.

If he is working from home by choice, he would rather not put on his _public face_ of politeness and diplomacy. And if he'd rather not do that – then Sherrinford affected him more deeply than his speedy response to sweeping Molly's flat, securing all paperwork and testimonies from the Sherrinford incident, and seeing to Baker Street would suggest.

And Sherlock realizes, already knocking at his brother's door – that his brother is a bloody hypocrite. Allowances can be made for the length of time it takes him to reach this conclusion, due to the earth-shaking realizations he's had the past few days, himself.

Mycroft Holmes, purveyor of logic and reason, ridiculer of sentiment and emotion and attachment, scorner of all matters of the heart – it turns out that _he_ has a heart stronger and more loyal than perhaps the lot of them all.

He made arrangements to keep his insane sister alive and comfortable, protecting the masses and his family in the process.

He did his best to shield his brother from more trauma, from experiencing the heartache of loss any more than he already had – and for what? What benefit would Mycroft gain from hiding the past from his brother? It certainly created plenty of trouble for him. Lie upon lie, constantly on the lookout for triggers and memories resurfacing, drug problems that made his little brother more difficult to predict and impossible to control –

 _No_ , Sherlock realizes. He'd hidden the past from Sherlock because Sherlock's pain caused _him_ pain. He didn't want to see his little brother hurt again – because it would hurt _him._ Empathy and compassion were two of the main (misguided) driving forces in Mycroft's life. Wasn't his whole _role_ with his 'minor' position in the British Government to keep the balance in the good, as a whole? To decide who should be allowed to die, that the greater balance of lives would remain safe? He'd hardened himself from emotion for the benefit of others.

He's made mistakes, to be certain. Huge mistakes. Nearly unforgivable mistakes.

But Sherlock also realizes that Mycroft has tried, for so long, to bear the burden of their sister's condition alone. He visited her, spoke with her, tried to prevent her from hurting herself and others – he gave her _gifts,_ for the love of –

-And then Mycroft is opening the door. He has not shaven since Sherrinford, but he is recently showered. Absent of his usual waistcoat and jacket, his plain button-down and slacks look almost like lounge wear.

"You're a bloody hypocrite, you know that?" Sherlock announces, but there is no anger and no accusation in his voice.

Mycroft sighs and steps aside. "Come in."

Sherlock brushes past him, taking in every bit of his brother's appearance and that of his home, more intent now on understanding his brother's motives and the reasoning behind them.

 _Holding it together, recovering, shaken but – he's been through – similar recoveries, after Eurus, before – nothing so traumatic as the past weekend, but -_

"Well then," Mycroft says drily as Sherlock follows him into the study, where papers are stacked neatly beside his laptop, and three phones are aligned neatly below the stapler. "We'd best get my lecture over with. I'm sure to endure much worse from Mummy and Father tomorrow. Possibly for months. Years, even."

He pours them both a brandy, despite it being relatively early in the afternoon, and Sherlock takes it in surprise. "You're telling…Mummy?"

"I'm thinking all the past tickets to musicals will not even the balance of years of lying and deceit, mmm?" Mycroft's voice is edged with sarcasm, but his eyes have a sadness to them that makes Sherlock sit in the chair across from his brother's desk.

"You're telling our parents," he repeats, and he curses himself for not even considering the implications the past weekend's events would have on their parents. "Why?"

Mycroft's hand had been forced, in regard to telling Sherlock – but their parents hadn't been a part of Eurus's game at all. Was that it? Was he going to prevent her from using them in the future?

He gazes into his brandy, swirling it about in his glass, and something inside him shivers slightly at the thought of Eurus devising any more games for them to play in the future.

"Tell me why I'm a hypocrite," Mycroft responds, resigned.

Sherlock stares at him for a moment, eyes narrowed, and begins slowly. "You've told me for years that sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side. You've done your best to keep me from forming attachments with…people. And yet – you – you've put yourself through _hell_ for the sake of maintaining a – a _relationship_ with our sister-"

"-merely to track her abilities and interests, though you can see how _that_ backfired-"

"-you risked your job and reputation to keep me alive, with Moriarty – and by extension – John, Mrs. Hudson, Greg-"

"-I was righting a wrong, brother mine. It was _my_ miscalculation that led to him-"

"-never _mind_ the Magnusson cockup. And you tried your best to manipulate me into killing _you_ instead of _John_!" Sherlock stands, pressing his hands onto the desk his brother is finding refuge behind. "You swept Molly's flat and increased her security _less than twenty-four hours_ after you were rescued from Sherrinford. You ensured that all statements of affected parties – myself, John, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, the Yarders – you've made sure all records are taken care of so that no one has to be pulled in for more questioning. You've already taken care of securing repairs to Baker Street, and paid them _in full._ Those are not the actions of someone who doesn't have an _attachment_ to _people_! And if that's a defect, then you're as defective as the lot of us!"

Mycroft holds his brother's gaze for a moment, face unreadable. One of his phones buzzes, and he directs his scrutiny to the message on the screen, texting a reply before placing it neatly back in its place.

He takes a sip of brandy, relishing the movement of it in his glass, before setting it down on a coaster and once again meeting's Sherlock's demanding gaze.

Mycroft Holmes presses his lips into a thin line, and responds softly. "Are you quite done?"

Sherlock glares at him and returns to his seat. "As I said before, you're a hypocrite."

"I was only trying to protect you."

Sherlock opens his mouth to call him on his utter bull, but Mycroft continues without prompting.

"I told you that sentiment was a chemical defect found on the losing side, Sherlock. I just didn't tell you that I've been on the losing side for far too long myself." He swallows, and looks primly down at the papers in front of him, shifting one that is out of place so that it fits with the others. "I wanted one of us to have a chance at escaping our past."

Sherlock stares at him for a moment, mouth still open, before snapping it shut and straightening from his accusatory stance. He blinks, perplexed at his brother's revelation.

 _...Because if anything were to happen to you, it would break my heart…_

 _...I suppose there is a heart somewhere inside of me. I don't imagine it's much of a target but…why don't we try for that?..._

Subdued, he sits back in the chair and returns to swirling his drink in his hand. He takes a sip, brows drawn together in concentration.

"I'm tired," Mycroft states after a few moments of silence.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow at that. "Is that my cue to leave?"

Mycroft's lips twitch up at one corner. "That's my reasoning behind telling our parents, Sherlock. I'm tired of lying, and I'm tired of trying to keep everyone safe and…content. Perhaps it's a weak man's answer, but it's the truth - I've failed miserably, and it's time I admit that."

Sherlock watches him for a moment, a slight wrinkle in his forehead as he contemplates his brother's newfound vulnerability.

As if reading his mind, Mycroft smirks. "Don't expect any more personal revelations until one of us is on our death bed. As it is, I've already surpassed my quota for the next two decades."

Sherlock's face relaxes at that, and he snorts. "Well, I'll be sure to save a good one for you then, as you're three times as likely to go before me."

"Mmm, four times, if you're factoring in Mummy's reaction," Mycroft mutters half-heartedly.

Sherlock downs the rest of his drink, and hesitates before setting the glass gently on the nearby end table. He sighs as he stands, shoving his hands in the pockets of his Belstaff.

"Well, then." He clears his throat. "Meet you at your office tomorrow, then? Mmm...9:00? You're thinking it best to get it over with early."

Mycroft looks up at him, carefully concealed surprise leaking into his expression. " _Why_ would you want to come?"

Sherlock shrugs, and walks to the study door. He grips the handle, and staring at it, responds. "You haven't failed… _miserably._ Your self-assessments are usually much more accurate than that. I'd say you've even marginally succeeded at keeping the general public safe…and, though it may have been an unintended side effect…" he looks up at his brother, and gives him a wink and a charismatic grin. "I do forgive you for outsmarting me for the past thirty-odd years. Consider that admission an achievement, if you must. So. Nine?" He looks at his brother expectantly.

Mycroft nods in agreement. "Nine," he confirms quietly.

As his brother lets the door shut loudly behind him, the stress lines that have marred Mycroft's forehead for years begin to relax in relief.

* * *

Sherlock stares at the ground, his own ears ringing with the scorn and betrayal in his parents' voices. It is not directed toward him, but it's almost as painful as if it were.

"Then you should've done _better_ ," his mother replies to a comment of Mycroft's, and Sherlock is reminded of where he and his brother get their often-acidic tone.

"He did his best," Sherlock interrupts quietly, darting a gaze to his brother, who is looking more defeated by the moment ( _though to an outsider, he would look merely exasperated – Sherlock recognizes the look in his brother's eyes, as it's one he's seen in the mirror too often, as of late.)_

"Then he's very limited." Their mother's tone is disparaging at best, and it is obvious what opinion she holds of her eldest son, at the moment.

Mycroft looks to his brother, a quick plea and thanks for support rolled into one glance, and when their parents ask to see her, they are not surprised.

They'd discussed this, before their parents arrived. They'd both recognized that their parents would want to see Eurus. This was also when Mycroft revealed that Eurus had not spoken since being arrested at Musgrave, and that she was for the most part entirely indifferent to attention from staff at Sherrinford.

When his mother asks Sherlock what they should do now, he glances up, and receives a small nod from Mycroft. He'd explained about his promise to Eurus – that he would try to visit her – and Mycroft agreed that he could, but warned him about her unresponsiveness.

"Now?" Sherlock says quietly. "Now, you wait."

"Wait?!" His mother screeches, on the verge of hysterics. "I haven't seen my daughter in – in thirty years and you-"

" _You. Will. Wait._ " He says firmly, and steps toward her. " _I_ will visit and attempt to communicate with her."

"How? _How,_ if she's as 'unresponsive' as-"

"Music."

"Music?" His mother sniffs uncertainly.

"She…loved playing the violin, before. Perhaps…" he trails off thoughtfully. "Mycroft and I agree that it would be best-"

"-and you trust _his_ judgment, after everything?" She responds scathingly, shooting her eldest a disapproving glare.

"I do," Sherlock responds, voice quiet but sure. He straightens just a bit, and his mother steps back, thrown off by the unwavering tone of his voice.

"Not in _all_ things," he amends, giving his brother a tight look – "but in this – yes."

His mother opens and shuts her mouth for a moment, and then looks pensively at her shoes for a full two minutes.

"Well." She sighs forcefully and exchanges a glance with her husband, before turning to address Sherlock again. "Well, then. I suppose…we'll wait." Her tone is flat but accepting.

Their parents gather their things and move to the door to leave. "However," she adds, her husband's hand on the small of her back, "I will not wait patiently. I do not expect to have to wait another ten years before I see my daughter again."

* * *

 _She isn't flying, anymore. Neither is she falling, or crash-landing._

 _She's not really…anything._

 _It's all foggy. Cloudy?_

 _There are sounds and shadows and maybe they are people – or maybe they're just her imagination, again._

 _If anything…she is lost._

* * *

It ends up being a solid three days since their conversation at John's before Sherlock sees Molly again, but all things considered, he can't complain.

He's come to check on all the forensic evidence left from his sister's case – the murders of the therapist and the neighbor – and to make sure there's nothing that anyone missed – nothing that was left as a message for him. He's going to be certain that the game is over, and that there is nothing left to be played.

When he arrives, he can hear her muffled voice through the steel doors, and that's unusual. Tilting his head in concentration, he steps to the small windows in the doors, and his eyes crinkle in amusement as he observes the scene within.

Molly is standing beside an intern, next to a body open on the slab. They're apparently about done, because the intern has started sewing up the corpse, and Molly has a look on her face that is _screaming_ 'I'm just barely keeping it together.' Her lips are pressed together in grim concentration, and her eyes have glazed over a bit. Her right cheek twitches a bit from the effort of biting her tongue, and it's apparent why, after a quick observation of her intern.

The young man beside her is probably ten years her junior, with flawless skin, a strong jawline, and a head of perfectly trimmed, coifed blonde hair. His clothes – what Sherlock can see of them, underneath the lab coat and protective gear – are designer, perfectly pressed. His body language conveys confidence in _buckets_ , however –

Molly winces as the intern swears a bit under his breath, and then chuckles. "Oops, got a bit too much skin there – not that _you_ care, do you, old bean?" His voice, muffled somewhat through the door, trails off as he falls back into an easy concentration, but his stitching is as shoddy as Sherlock has ever seen – it looks like a half-blind, well-intentioned nan has tried to stitch up a favorite lovey - and if the rest of the autopsy went as well as the stitching-up, Sherlock can only imagine what Molly's had to bear witness to today.

She gives her intern a withering glance. "No," she agrees loudly, and her tone is cool and clipped. "No, Mr. Turner - the 'old bean' - does not much care about an imperfect Y-stitch, nor does he care about a nicked internal organ, here or there, or that you dropped some of his stomach matter on the floor. However, his family and the mortician will certainly care about his appearance, and the officers at New Scotland Yard, as well as our department head, will have something to say if your carelessness leads to a botched murder investigation!" Her voice rises in pitch and loudness, and her nails dig into her arms, crossed across her chest.

"Mmm, lucky this _obviously_ wasn't a murder then, eh?" The intern is still concentrating on finishing his stitches, and brushes off Molly's concern as though it's nothing more than an irritating gnat.

Molly frowns at him. "You have to treat _every_ body as if they're a possible murder victim, until the Yard clears it as unsuspicious – and even then, I take care to look for anything they might have missed, like-"

Sherlock frowns as well, as the intern actually has the nerve to _laugh out loud_ at her lecture. "Something they might've _missed_? We're not _detectives,_ Doctor Hooper. We're -"

"-done here," Sherlock interrupts, pushing the doors open, and giving the young man a judgmental look before pulling out his phone and sending a quick text. The intern raises his eyebrows in surprise, but still seems quite unperturbed. "You're obviously not cut out for this line of work, Mr. Schmidt. We've got plenty of sniveling idiots in this hospital already, no need to add to the overabundance."

He smiles unconvincingly at the man and darts a glance at Molly's face, and is pleased to see it's relaxed a fraction. She bites her lip, looking between the two men, her expression waffling between amusement and discomfort.

Mr. _Schmidt_ sets his tools down carefully ( _probably the only thing he's done carefully all day_ ), and turns to face his heckler. "And who are you? I don't see an ID badge, and you're not dressed for the morgue. Scrubs, sir, are required." He still seems more amused then put off.

"Not if you're Sherlock Holmes," Molly mumbles, raising her eyebrows at the man in question, and composes her face into open nonchalance as she begins collecting the tools to sterilize.

The intern nods in cool recognition at the name. "Ah, the blogger detective. I remember reading about you."

" _Consulting_ detective. John's the blogger. I don't have time for rewriting facts as insipid fantasy adventures, and I certainly don't have time to correct _your_ shoddy workmanship, as well as the Yard's."

"Bit over-confident, isn't he?" Mr. Schmidt chuckles a bit and gives a knowing look to Molly, who shakes her head at him and smiles shrewdly.

"Not a fan, then, Mr. Schmidt?" She asks sweetly.

Sherlock gives her a quick look, and her smile only widens.

"A fan of uneducated bullies who charm and intimidate their way into solving puzzles because they've nothing better to do but shoot up drugs? Mmm…no." His answer is dripping with cheerful condescension.

Sherlock's face darkens for a moment – he usually pays no mind to his detractors, but this man – whom he may have to see _regularly_ \- is _ridiculous_ – but then Molly's talking again.

"Well, Mr. Schmidt. Perhaps you should let him deduce you, then. It might impress you – change your opinion of him."

Mr. Schmidt, who has up until now let Molly do all the dirty work in cleaning up, makes a show of wiping down the countertops and wheeling Mr. Turner back into the cooler. He washes up, a smirk playing on his face, and shrugs coolly. "I'm sure it won't, but go ahead, _Mr._ Holmes – do your worst. Or your best. Though I'm sure they're the same thing."

He turns to face the detective, crossing his arms and leaning against a clean table, the picture of unimpressed.

Sherlock looks behind him at Molly who is now leaning, herself, against the coolers. He raises an eyebrow, a mixture of disbelief and uncertainty etched on his face – and she smiles at him.

It's a little thing – a smirk, and a tilt of her chin toward the man who's back is toward her – but she is conveying both her approval and confidence in Sherlock. Just before he looks back at the pompous arse before him, she mouths two words, shaking her head just slightly – _no mercy._

For some reason, her encouragement floods him with a warmth he hasn't felt in _ages_ – and he has to press his lips into a fine line to keep from smiling at her in return.

Instead, he focuses the rush of chemicals released by her on deducing the man before him, and it isn't long before a smile is creeping onto his face for entirely different reasons.

 _Fine, fine – good – not excellent – nothing terribly exciting, simply run-of-the-mill secrets - but still – good. If he plays it right, enough to keep the man from setting foot in Bart's again._

He steps back and presses his fingers to his lips, taking in all the data he can from the man before him. He keeps finding them - the man's secrets exposed before him like eggs hidden on Easter –concealed, but still barely visible, if you know where to look.

After a moment, a chuckle escapes him and he gives a nod in Molly's direction, who is waiting with an open, expectant, all too innocent look on her face.

He quickly schools his expression into something more sober, and blinks, giving Mr. Schmidt one last once-over before tearing the man to shreds.

The man in question sighs, and makes a show of looking at the Rolex on his wrist. "Anytime, Mr. Holmes. That is – if you even _have_ any 'dark and mysterious' secrets you can tell me."

Sherlock chuckles again, and his eyes narrow at the man. "Oh, I have _plenty_ , Mr. Jeremiah Fitzwilliam Schmidt. Second son of a wealthy father, obvious in your choice of clothing and accessories, and in your _educated_ accent, as well as the fact that you _somehow_ made it through a medical program long enough to become an intern at St. Bartholomew's in London. What makes it a bit more interesting, though, is your choice of profession. Now, _why_ would you, the wealthy son of a – mmm, real estate magnate?"

He pauses for a moment, and Jeremiah nods his head in confirmation, a bored look on his face. "All information easily found on Google, Mr. Holmes-"

Sherlock plows forth, unhindered by the man's façade and motivated by the chance not only to lay this complete tit out to dry, but also by the chance to show off for Molly. "Yes, yes of course – as I was saying, it _could_ be because your mother died when you were young, and sparked an interest in death, could it not? It _could_ be because you want to ease the suffering of those who have lost loved ones – give them answers, closure, comfort – and that's certainly what you tell people, is it not? _I yearn for the opportunity to provide for others what was given our family at my mother's tragic death-"_

Here, Jeremiah Schmidt frowns, and shifts his body weight, just a bit. "That resume was supposed to be closed - _private-_ "

"-but that's a bold-faced _lie,_ isn't it Jeremiah?" Sherlock continues, rubbing his hands together briskly. ( _The bit about the yearning was an educated prediction based on Schmidt's upbringing, place of education, and simpering attitude with Molly, earlier – but it fires Sherlock up that he got it so close the man actually thought he'd read his resume.)_ "Because it's not about _closure_ or _kindness_ or even the excitement of _solving mysteries_ – made evident by your dismissal of the importance of pathologists in criminal investigations in your comment to Doctor Hooper, moments ago. No – your motivation is two-fold. First of all – your father."

Schmidt rolls his eyes, but Sherlock plows forward, a smile curving upward on his lips. "Probably makes a public show of how proud his is of you, mmm? Choosing a life of public service, paying for your education in support, so on and so on, boring boring…but he's not supportive at all, is he? You _specifically_ chose this career because you, sir, are a bastard."

Schmidt straightens and glares at Holmes, suspicion suddenly creeping into his expression.

"Not just in the colloquial term – because _that_ certainly applies as well - but also in regard to the original definition – an _illegitimate child._ "

A dangerous smile creeps onto Sherlock's face as his detractor's face turns stony. "Ridiculous-" he bites sharply, but Sherlock cuts him off yet again.

"No, no – it's terribly true. And the thing is, though your mother died when you were young – late teens, I presume? – it's when she died that your _father_ discovered the truth, isn't it? You'd already known – she'd told you, once you were old enough to keep a secret, especially one that benefitted you. But your father found out. Putting someone's affairs in order can always reveal such _interesting_ secrets." He shakes his head, but here he pauses – stealing a glance at Molly – and she's straightened, eyes wide, obviously not expecting _such_ a revelation. Perhaps she's regretting her _no mercy_ stance – and so, he tones it down, just a bit – for her sake.

Sherlock sighs, fixing the man with a solemn, searching gaze. When he speaks next, his speech is so rapid-fire the man across from him narrows his eyes in concentration to keep up with what Sherlock is saying. "And how, exactly, did this revelation lead to _your_ choice of a career in pathology? While I admit this requires some inductive reasoning as well as deductive – the logic is clear enough. Your mother knew, of course, that you were not her husband's child. Thus she was always 'playing favorite's' – not because she did not love her first son, but because she _knew_ that if and when your father found out the truth, there would certainly be favoritism shown by him to his eldest, true son. She coddled and hovered, attempting to smooth over any indiscretions or unfavorable circumstances at school and in society, to make you more appealing to your father. However, this _obviously_ backfired, as she enabled you to become a wealthy, entitled prick who expects to have everything come easily to him in life, and who attempts (and usually succeeds, I'll give you credit there) to charm his way out of any consequences he may face for his actions. I'm sure were I to research school records, I would find nothing _official_ – but there would be plenty of rumors and gossip surrounding your spotless records. Perhaps sympathy would lie fully on your side in this family matter, had you not cheated and lied and schemed right along with your mother."

He takes a breath, and continues, ignoring the burning hatred in Jeremiah Schmidt's eyes. "And so, when the truth was revealed, your father gave you two choices: step up, learn the company trade in your elder brother's footsteps, forever _just_ beneath him - and forgo your pandering, trouble-making ways – or be cut off from the family fortune. You chose, obviously, the latter, and your father's parting gift was to pay for your schooling so that you would at least have a means to provide for yourself. Now, faced with the dilemma of running out of funds, you had to choose a lucrative career that would pay an acceptable sum with the least amount of effort. I'm sure, somewhere in that _ridiculously_ misguided brain of yours, you thought that _doctors_ make large amounts of money, but were faced with _years and years_ of schooling. Still, for whatever reason, you chose the medical field – perhaps because they're looked favorably on by society, or perhaps because you wanted to stick it to daddy with a bigger bill? – and you decided that _pathology_ would be your area of specialization. Which brings us to your second motivator in choosing _pathology._ Your patients are already dead, aren't they? Not much harm you can do there. If you fudge a bit of data here, do some sloppy stitching there – who would notice? Who would care? You're used to charming and cheating your way through life – med school was a challenge, but you made it _this_ far, didn't you? You _thought_ , Mr. Schmidt, that you could make an easy life for yourself, getting a doctor's pay on the minimum amount of knowledge gleaned from your classes and your charm alone. You thought _wrong._ "

He looks up from the man's frame to meet his eyes, and Jeremiah Schmidt's face is contorted in dignified rage. Before the man gets a chance to speak, however, Sherlock delivers the final blow.

"You will never make a living _here,_ Mr. Schmidt. You cannot _schmooze_ your way into the highest-paying, top research hospital in London without at least _passable_ skills. You'll be lucky to find a job as an assistant in some morgue in Scarborough."

The man in questions straightens himself to his full height at that, all traces of boredom and skepticism gone. "I don't know how you did that, Mr. Holmes-"

Sherlock opens his mouth to explain – _hair cut, nails, the folds in the suit, how he's wearing his safety equipment, where he keeps his mobile phone, shoes, lack of calluses on the fingers – etcetera, etcetera –_ but the man is apparently not actually interested in _how._

 _"-_ and I don't really care _how_ – though I suspect it involves spies and blackmail and unfounded gossip – but I can _assure_ you that such slander and harassment will not be tolerated. The board of directors and human resources will both be receiving a personal visit from myself _today,_ and I doubt you'll be allowed back on the premises once I'm through with my complaints-"

Sherlock snorts at that, clearly amused at Schmidt's lack of knowledge about _Sherlock Holmes and His Relationship with Bart's Hospital._

"-and _furthermore,_ I'm aware I still have some skills to perfect, but I'm an _intern_ , Mr. Holmes – I can hardly expect to be at, say, Doctor Hooper's level when she's got _years_ more experience than I. I think you'll find that her report indicates that I _do_ possess 'passable skills', and more than that – a natural talent for sympathizing with the dead." He sniffs, his tone ringing more confident with every word. "Wouldn't you say, Doctor Hooper?" He looks at her expectantly.

Molly shoots Sherlock a look before smiling, somewhat nervously and just a tad apologetically, to Jeremiah Schmidt. "Actually, Mr. Schmidt – unfortunately - I wouldn't say that." She gives him a sympathetic gaze. "I _am_ sorry about your mum. And your dad. That – that must have been really hard to go through."

His expression falls from one of self-righteous expectation to one of stormy disbelief. "You _believe_ this – this tosser?"

"I do," she responds evenly, avoiding looking at Sherlock. "He's usually right, in these sorts of things. I'll be asking Stamford to take a closer look at your transcripts and the board to make a few calls to your old professors. If he's wrong, you've nothing to worry about. But – he _is_ usually right."

Jeremiah's face tightens slightly in anger. "I bought you _coffee_ ," he hisses.

Molly raises her eyebrows in disbelief and crosses her arms, pressing her lips into a tight line. "Coffee that was appreciated, but that I did not expect nor ask for. And if you think I can be bought for a cup of coffee from the canteen, you-" she laughs softly "-you are very wrong, Mr. Schmidt."

He narrows his eyes at the two of them. "You'll be sorry. The _both_ of you. I'm going to the board _right now_." He makes his way to the door, turning to give them both one last haughty look.

Sherlock raises his hand and makes a _shooing_ motion. "Go on, then. Off with you." He gives the man an insincere smile.

The intern's chest heaves in indignation and he pivots on the spot, banging both doors open. "You'll _never_ be allowed back, Mr. Holmes. This is… _preposterous…_ "

They can still hear his indignation as he makes his way to the elevator and the doors to the morgue clang closed.

Both Molly and Sherlock sigh, and they stand awkwardly for a moment, avoiding each other's gaze.

"Well, then, thanks for-"

"I was hoping to see…the bodies-"

They start and stop simultaneously, and Molly grimaces.

Sherlock is quick to clarify. "I wanted to wrap up my sister's case as quickly as possible."

Molly nods. "Of course, right."

As she wheels out the two bodies, her lips do a funny sort of quiver, and Sherlock is not sure if she's repressing tears or amusement, until she speaks. "How long do you think they'll listen to him?" She asks thoughtfully.

Sherlock grunts as he begins his inspection. "Only until they feel he's fully expressed himself. And then they'll explain that their hands are tied and I'm an 'invaluable resource' and that he's welcome to look for work elsewhere."

"Do you think it will come to that?" Molly asks, and she sounds almost hopeful.

"Without a doubt. He seemed undeniably insistent that it was 'me or him', and was confident they'd pick him."

"He's in for a rude awakening, mmm?"

"Mmm. And if, for some ungodly reason, they _don't_ show him the door, I've texted Mycroft to…reassign Mr. Schmidt to another location."

Molly's eyebrows rise in surprise. "Was – that the text you sent as you walked in?"

"I'd heard enough," he states simply, and falls into silence as he examines the bodies.

She stands to the side as Sherlock looks them over. To his great relief, there does not seem to be any additional puzzles or messages hidden in their murders – they were a means to an end.

It only takes him twenty minutes to reach his conclusion, and washes his hands as Molly returns the bodies to their drawers and marks them as fully processed.

"I assume you'd like to see the evidence we have in the lab, as well?" She asks quietly.

He has been all business since he arrived – Schmidt providing a welcome diversion, their common and instant (on Sherlock's part) dislike of the man easily facilitating a reunion that had every possibility of being awkward and uncomfortable.

He stares at her for a moment, taking in her appearance and body language, little signs alerting him to her levels of stress and fatigue and comfort. (Stress levels have decreased since Schmidt has left, probably for good, and though she is tired, it is not entirely from lack of sleep – she's nearing the end of a long shift.) He's not sure if he's pleased or concerned that she seems to be calm and content – still recovering from their ordeal, but relatively untroubled by his presence.

"Yes. Would…would-" he begins, and then stops for a moment, completely unsure of where his brain and mouth were going with that.

She shifts slightly on her feet in expectation and then moves to gather her things, used to his strange way of stopping in the middle of a thought and thinking things through.

"Would you - like some _decent_ coffee?" He allows the words to move past his lips slowly and thoughtfully, as if considering for the first time that she might enjoy having some – and that he might enjoy having it _with_ her.

She tilts her head for a moment, eyes narrowed thoughtfully, and then gives him a small smile. "I would, actually." She glances at the clock above the cabinets. "I've only got an hour before my shift ends, so I'll take my paperwork to the lab and get your evidence samples prepped while you get the coffee? 2 creams,-"

"-2 sugars, yes, I – know." He finishes for her, surprised at his deflating ego as she brushes past him with a relieved _'thank you'_.

 _Well, damn._

* * *

It's an unspoken agreement between the two of them that he brings her coffee from now on, and it's always perfectly made, at the perfect temperature, and somehow – even when they're just moving from one part of the hospital to another, even when it should be impossible – it's from the nice shop across the street (never from the canteen). He doesn't explain and she doesn't ask. She just accepts this shift in their relationship as evidence that he is making an effort to rebuild her trust and their friendship, and it becomes her new normal. Perhaps, if it continues for as long as she always made it for him (which was _years_ ), she'll offer to make it for him again.

She never stops noticing the little things he does that show he cares (the things she always noticed in the first place – holding doors, holding his tongue – _and apparently unleashing it, in the case of Schmidt_ – when necessary). But she notices that _now_ – now, he seems to notice it, too. She catches the small furrow of his brow as he silently takes her messenger bag when she is laden with other work things, to walk her from the lab to her office. She notices that he pauses before asking if she needs to eat when they've been working odd hours for a while. He is hesitant but consistent, and she tries not to let how endearing he is open the door she soundly shut after their conversation at John's.

He didn't argue with her, after all.

And it takes some adjusting, but eventually, all those little things begin strengthening their _friendship_ , as opposed to her longing. It's still _there_ , but it's being fed less and less, and she's impatiently hoping it will die completely one day in the future.

She's feeling particularly strong and hopeful in this regard on a day near the end of October, nearly a month after the Sherrinford incident, when her work in the lab is interrupted by the familiar dramatic bang of the steel door.

What's a bit _less_ familiar is John's yelling.

"-a bloody _stubborn idiot_ – that's what you are." He's finishing up, his face red as he strides in after Sherlock. For all the venom in his voice, however, his expression is more one of irritation and concern than actual anger.

The idiot in question pauses a few meters from her, one hand wrapped in a blood-stained scarf, held firmly and gently with the other hand.

Molly blinks between the two of them, quickly abandoning her microscope to offer her assistance. "What happened?"

"I need to see the lab results from the Huntington case. If who we just encountered was who I _think_ it was, the Yard – as usual – has the wrong suspect in custody, and time is of the essence in making the correct arrest."

He's only gotten the first sentence out of his mouth when she turns on her heel and crosses to the counter, where papers are filed neatly in three bins. She rifles through one of them until she finds what she's looking for. When she turns around, he's standing behind her, and she nearly bumps into his chest. He holds his poorly bandaged hand out in expectation, but she pulls the file closer and reads it aloud, giving him a look over the top of it.

"Huntington – results from the tissue biopsy indicate normal levels of everything except…bilirubin. Elevated. Almost like liver failure, but – not actually _from_ liver failure."

"Mmm," Sherlock steps back and nods. "And the soil samples?"

She looks back down at the file. "An unusual sample. Matched soil used in both Kew Gardens and a family owned business in Orpington."

A familiar smirk crosses his lips and he moves to pull his phone out of his pocket, presumably to text Lestrade the news, and winces as he remembers he is unable to text at the moment.

"John?" He asks expectantly, shaking his hip and gesturing with his injured hand, indicating that John should remove the mobile from his pocket and text the information for him.

"Hand _first,_ " John responds firmly, holding out one of his own hands in anticipation.

"Hmm, no - I'd really rather you not," Sherlock casually. "You can text, and Molly will fix my hand." He hesitates just a moment, and then looks at her. "Won't you?"

Molly is about to ask what exactly it is he needs and why John isn't the better option, in this case – but John beats her to it.

"Are you serious right now?"

"Well I'm not _joking_."

"I am entirely capable of-"

"I want Molly to do it. She's better."

Sherlock's matter of fact tone makes both John and Molly turn to him in surprise.

"Sherlock, I'm not really-" she begins –

" _Better_? I'm an experienced _field doctor_ , Sherlock!"

"She also happens to be a doctor."

"She's a _pathologist_!" John darts a sheepish gaze at her, and amends quickly – "A top notch pathologist, but -"

"-Still a doctor." Sherlock's eyes narrow at John's protest.

"Yes, but she works on _dead_ _people,_ Sherlock."

"And you are used to working on soldiers in the field, where completing the job quickly and safely trumps all else. Because of the fact that she is preparing _her_ patients to look their best for their families, her stitching is neater and more precise than yours. Less scarring."

John throws his hands up in defeat. "Fine! Fine. Next time you're injured on the job, I'll wait until you pass out from blood loss before convincing you to seek medical treatment."

Sherlock sniffs slightly. "Don't take it so personally, John. If we weren't so close to Bart's, I'd have let you take care of it. But you're an army doctor - an excellent one at that – you're more focused on getting things patched up practically, rather than perfectly. Molly's perfect."

There is silence for a split second, before he catches and corrects himself.

"Her work. Molly's work is perfect." He amends, the tips of his ears barely tinged pink, hidden beneath his wild hair.

John eyeballs him, hard. "No argument there, but you're still a bloody stubborn fool. Walking ten blocks, dripping all over London – blood everywhere-" he's gesturing again, but his voice has dropped into gruff admonition, and trails off in an irritated huff. "Right, then. He's all yours, Molly, sorry to interrupt you. I'm getting coffee."

"Black, two sugars!" Sherlock calls after him as he walks away.

John responds good-naturedly with his middle finger as the door swings shut behind him.

Sherlock turns to the pathologist, clearing his throat slightly. She's already retrieved her medical kit – the one she's kept on hand for years for situations just like this – a smile tugging at her lips just as she's tugging on new gloves.

"All right, then – sit down," she nods to the stool he's standing beside, and he readily complies.

She begins to delicately unwrap the scarf around his hand, making a slight click with her tongue as she sees the extent of the blood. "Nicked a vein, there, mmm? D'you want to keep this, or-?" She gestures to the scarf she's holding, now – one of his favorite blue ones, saturated and blotched and beyond ruined now.

He sighs. "No. Hazardous waste, I suppose."

She nods and deposits it into the proper bin, then gently takes his hand in hers, flexing his palm gently. He winces slightly, and her eyes move carefully from his face to the hand before her. "Painful, and a bit deep – but not so bad as John made it seem, then."

"No, I think he was put off I wouldn't let him fix it."

"There is still some glass here, though. Was it – a beer bottle?" She frowns at the green, curved glass.

"Wine, actually."

"Oh," she says, using tweezers to pry out the few pieces imbedded in his flesh. She sets them carefully on a clean petri dish, knowing he'll want to examine them later under a microscope, and proceeds to disinfect his hand.

Sherlock hisses through his teeth as she hits the deepest gash, and she glances up at him again, only slightly sympathetic. "What happened, then?"

"Suspect was very convincing in playing a drunk. I had to prove he wasn't actually drunk. He was aiming for my face. Luckily, I have fast reflexes."

She pauses to prepare her glue and stitching, but he doesn't go into further detail. Strange, because he usually thrives on revealing all the details of a case in dramatic glory. "So-"

She looks back up before beginning the work of mending up his hand (feeling a bit pressured, now to do it _perfectly_ ), and her question catches in her throat. He is watching her work, eyes dark and intense and – there's something in his expression that throws her off.

He quickly looks away, and she shakes it off before any coherent conclusion about it actually forms in her thoughts. "- so this is related to the Huntington case, then?" She asks evenly, just a bit frustrated at the familiar _THUD-thud_ of her heart at his gaze.

He clears his throat again, and then confirms and begins his usual logical retelling of the case and his deductions as she finishes her work of patching him up. He wraps up his version of events as she wraps a sterile gauze around his hand, and she gives him a small smile as she stands to clean up her equipment. She pulls her gloves off and Sherlock is about to stand, a _thank-you_ on his lips, when something catches her eye and she frowns.

"Wait a moment." She turns toward him and closes the gap between them, carefully picking her tweezers back up placing one hand on the side of his head to keep him still.

He freezes at her touch, and she takes the next five minutes to pluck a few stray pieces of glass out of his hair. His eyes flutter closed at the contact. When she's confident she's gotten them all, she gently shakes her fingers through his hair, double checking - and then smooths back a lock from his forehead and dabs a small, shallow scrape gently with disinfectant.

It is all very clinical and professional – but Sherlock finds himself suddenly unable to _breathe –_ because she's _there – right there – her hands are in his hair and it's heavenly_ – and when he opens his eyes, it is at the exact moment she is leaning forward slightly to disinfect the scrape just near his hairline and – and her chest is _right in front of his nose._

The tinge on his ears is a good deal more red than pink, now, and he swallows and holds his breath and squeezes his eyes shut – but that does no good, either, because the image of her unbuttoning her blouse on an ambulance ride to Smith's hospital is playing front and center in his mind.

He can feel her stepping back and moving away, and his eyes open, blinking rapidly.

"-should be just fine. Change the dressing twice a day for a few days, or more often if it gets wet or dirty – have John take a look at it in three or four days just to be safe. And I mean _actually_ let him look. Sherlock?" She asks, and she suddenly looks concerned.

"Mmm?" He asks distractedly, trying his darnedest to focus on what she was saying – and forcing himself to look her in the eye.

"Are you – okay?" She's cleaned her things, now, and is washing her hands, frowning at him.

"No. Yes. I – it's fine." He nods and stands, and steps toward her, flexing his bandaged hand slightly. "Perfect, actually." He gives her a small smile. "Thank you, Molly Hooper."

She tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear, and tilts her head, still frowning at his odd behavior. "You're welcome."

John enters then with three coffees, and he hands one to Molly and one to Sherlock. An amused expression keeps flickering across his face, and Sherlock can tell he'd waited at the door for a minute before entering.

Molly barely thanks John for the coffee before Sherlock cuts her off.

"Yes, thank you, time to go John." He stands and is out the door before John's finished telling Molly that it was no problem.

They give each other the ' _that's Sherlock for you'_ shrug – and he offers his thanks and apologies before following his friend out the door.

* * *

"Well?" John asks, later that evening, after Rosie is in bed.

"Well what?"

"You really do like her, don't you?"

Sherlock blinks at him. "Well, I admit I do hold a certain affection for her, even if she insists on drooling on my last good shirt." He looks down in distaste at the drool marks Rosamund left on his shirt when she got fussy as John was taking a shower.

John rolls his eyes. "I'm not talking about Rosie." He pauses a moment, and a small smile crosses his face. "But she likes you – so I'm glad the feeling is mutual, then."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow and sits back on John's couch, flicking the ends of the latest newspaper to get it to stand straighter.

"No, no – don't hide behind that paper. I was talking about Molly."

The paper becomes surprisingly still, and John tries again. "It wasn't – it wasn't just fear of losing her, then. It wasn't – just deep – affection, or appreciation. You really do _like_ her, don't you?"

Behind the paper, Sherlock sighs. "Of course I _like_ her, John. I'd have hardly worked with her for this long if I didn't appreciate her company."

"No – I mean-" John frowns and pauses, then takes a breath and pushes on. "You're – you think she's - pretty."

Sherlock lowers the paper somewhat, and his face is hard to read over the print. John can tell, however, that he is not amused.

"Beauty is a construct based entirely on childhood impressions, influences, and role models. Based on this information alone, I think we can safely agree that my concept of 'beauty' must be woefully inadequate."

John smirks at that – because his words are stone, but the corner of Sherlock's mouth is twitching and he won't exactly meet John's eyes.

"I think she's an attractive woman," John states casually. "I'm pretty sure Greg does, too. And it's not just the way she looks, is it?" He asks thoughtfully. "She's damn good at what she does, and that's pretty attractive itself. She's also good with Rosie, and is generally just a nice person to have a visit with, you know?"

The paper drops entirely at that, and Sherlock stares at him with a look of blank horror on his face.

"I mean, you don't have to worry about _us_ ," John continues innocently. "We'd never – well – I just mean – it's okay to admit it, you know. That she's – attractive. You're not the only one to think so."

Sherlock turns slightly, staring into the fire, and John sighs. He knows that look – the sinking into the Mind Palace look – and he gives up trying to get anywhere with Sherlock in the _discussing relationships_ matter that night.

* * *

That night is the first night he dreams of her.

Sherlock bolts upright, sweating heavily and clutching the sheets tangled around him in his fists, his injured hand throbbing. His heart beats wildly in his chest and it takes him a moment to quiet his mind and calm his breathing.

 _Short breathy sighs – the gentle brush of fingertips on skin – soft lips and dark eyes –_

He lets out a short bark of frustration as the last of the dream fades from his mind, and rubs a hand across his face, trying to scrub the images free. He carefully straightens and flexes the injured hand, grateful (and unsurprised) that the stitches have held quite nicely.

It won't do any good to lust after a woman he may never have – one he clearly wants _now_ , but one that deserves much more than simply what he feels like giving _now._

Still, he finds himself sitting upright on John's guest bed for what feels like hours, unable to completely banish the images and actions associated with the dream from his memory. It is a problem he is unaccustomed to having. The last time he was this physically attracted to a woman was with Irene, but she was easy enough to resist because she, too, was more interested in mind games at the time.

With Molly, it isn't a _game._ He needs to get it _right._

He flops back down onto the bed, and lies there, squeezing his eyes shut, trying desperately to think of _anything_ but her.

"Bloody _hell_." He says aloud to no one in particular.

* * *

 _Lost._

 _Yes._

 _That is the best word to describe it. Her. What she is._

 _She was wrong._

 _She is lost._

 _And it…sometimes, it is terrifying._

 _Sometimes, it is lonely (though that feeling is nothing new)._

 _And sometimes – it just is. She just exists, alone, in the quiet, with nothing but untrustworthy memories and fog and shadows to keep her company._

 _She's aware that time is passing. Part of her feels like an eternity has already passed – lifetimes and lifetimes since she last saw her brother, all grown up and choosing to feel again._

(It's at times when she thinks of _him_ that her expression changes – sometimes stormy, sometimes a small, eerie smile that gives the staff at Sherrinford goosebumps - but it is only when she thinks of _him_ that there is any indication that she thinks _at all._ )

 _And yet – part of her – that logical, computer-like part of her brain – is aware that it's been mere weeks. That changing the guard and staff takes time. That sorting out legal and emotional repercussions takes time. That he said he would try - and that trying is not promising._

 _It's that part of her – inconceivably – that logical part of her – that twinges with a small spark of hope every time her internal clock changes from 11:59 p.m. to 12:00 a.m._

 _Because maybe - maybe today is the day he will try._

 _Maybe today is the day he will succeed in visiting – in reaching her._

 _It's a strange reboot for the girl who was once so vindictive, and so filled with hatred and jealousy – to suddenly be waiting patiently in the dark for him to come._

 _And then – one day, precisely one hour, forty-three minutes and sixteen seconds after the staff have cleared away a nearly untouched lunch tray – the doors to her cell open._

 _She does not smile – not yet – because though she hopes – it_ could _be the other one, yet. Or another doctor. Mycroft will be angry if the staff disobeys him again, and the doctor visits won't last long. She doesn't feel much like talking, anyway._

 _And then she hears him. She can tell it's him – and that he's brought a case – his instrument – he's still waiting for his newest wardrobe to arrive after she destroyed the last one, because the clothes he's wearing are old – and he says nothing._

 _She does not move, and he begins to play._

 _For the two hours he is there – everything gets just a bit warmer, a bit lighter. She cannot move, cannot react except to soak it in, in awe._

 _And when he leaves – the light lingers, for just a little while._

* * *

Six weeks pass surprisingly fast, and over their course, normal routines are built on top of the skeletons of old ones as much as Baker Street is returned to normal by building on the remains of what was there, before.

In some ways, things are surprisingly the same. Within a week's time of moving back into his own home, Sherlock is staying up far too late (no baby to disturb) and solving cases by tacking string and paper all over their freshly wallpapered walls (to Mrs. Hudson's lament.) He gets sarcastic and argumentative, shoots at the walls when he is bored, and carries out experiments of questionable character.

John, though he stays at the home he and Mary shared the majority of the time, keeps a travel cot and spare necessities for both him and Rosie in his old room upstairs, just in case. He still gets angry at Sherlock's ability to predict his every move, and accompanies him on cases, and nags him until the great detective deigns to pay his electric bill.

Mrs. Hudson titters incessantly about her boys and affectionately reminds them time and time again the she is not their housekeepers, all the while boiling tea and bringing up biscuits 'just this once'.

Lestrade comes by with cases that alternately thrill Sherlock or cause him to roll his eyes in massive disappointment.

And yet – for all the routines and relationships that go on as they had before, there are an equal number of changes.

Mycroft does not come round nearly as often as before – but that is mainly because he and Sherlock visit Sherrinford at least every other week, now. (Mycroft stays in the observation room while Sherlock plays for Eurus. Even the British Government himself has to admit that he is simultaneously shocked and impressed with her improvement.) The exchanges between both brothers – while still competitive – are much more civil.

And then…there's Molly.

* * *

"John," Sherlock says casually, sitting on top of the dumpster to keep their key witness in place. The young man bangs angrily on the lid, nearly throwing him off. Sherlock places his hands on either side to steady himself, and he thumps on the lid in return. " _Really,"_ he sniffs, exasperated. "If you'd cooperated in the first place, we'd be sitting in front of the coffee shop across the street. It's just an _office_ dumpster. Not much food and nothing medically dangerous. Mostly papers. Soft and pleasant, as far as dumpsters go. You should be _grateful."_

The young man's angry shouts are muffled by the hammering on the lid again, and Sherlock redirects his attention to John, who is finishing up a call to let Greg know where to pick up their key witness (and possible accomplice) to their latest case.

"John," Sherlock continues as John places his mobile in his pocket. "How did you know Mary was…how did you know you were 'in love' with her?" He makes a face and air quotes 'in love', as though the concept is still distasteful.

John blinks incredulously from the shaking dumpster to the man sitting atop it. "Really? You want to talk about this _now_?"

Sherlock's brows draw together slightly. "Why? Not good?"

John shakes his head. "Well, I…no. I guess it's fine, yeah." He rubs the back of his neck, and peers up uncertainly at Sherlock. "I guess – I was attracted to her. Physically. Thought she was gorgeous. Wanted to kiss her. You know."

Sherlock stares at him intently, the banging on the dumpster lid having petered off momentarily.

John sighs, and then continues. "I never…I never minded her company. That'd probably be a big one for you. I mean – I always looked forward to seeing her, and even when I was right pissed at the rest of the world – including you – I…I liked being with her. Except for the…well, the shooting…thing – but anyways, what I'm talking about is – for you – when everyone else irritates you or bores you – she doesn't."

"When something bad happened, I wanted to share it with her. When something good happened – I wanted to share it with her. She was the first person I thought of when…well, when anything happened, really. I thought – "I've got to tell Mary", yeah?"" He smiles sadly. "And I wanted to make her happy. Making her feel happy – making her laugh, knowing I made her smile – it was better than…anything. I just – felt good around her, no matter what."

He looks up, and Sherlock is staring at him intently. "Until-" he begins –

"Until she shot you, yeah," John agrees, shaking his head. "But-"

"What th'ell is _wrong_ wif you blokes?!" The man in the dumpster is at it again, and Greg pulls up to the alley in his police car – and their conversation is not resumed again for another week.

* * *

She catches him acting strangely roughly once a week, now.

He's recovered quite nicely from the Sherrinford incident, as has she.

There are still times when things get a bit awkward, but for the most part – no more awkward than they ever were before.

His overly careful interactions with her the first month after the incident have bled into a new normal for the both of them – a seemingly alternate reality where _he_ brings _her_ coffee and says please and thank you like a civilized human being, more often than not. He's texted her a few times, requesting a look at a particular victim or lab result, and he took her up on her offer to come visit for a few hours one evening, before Baker Street was finished, when Rosie was cutting an apparently vicious tooth. It was nice. He brought takeaway and they talked and played Scrabble ( _their_ version, in which they use the letters from three different games on one board and any word known to man is an option), and then he spent time on his phone while she watched Downton Abbey.

She's not quite there, yet – but she can see, somewhere on the horizon, a time when she'll feel that the phone call may have been a _good_ thing. A _beneficial_ thing.

The thing is – she thinks her strengthening friendship with him is fanning the flames of her burnt-out heart, and it's causing her to read too much into things that don't mean anything.

She catches him looking at her, sometimes, the way he was looking at her when she stitched up his hand – it's part mournful and part… _hungry_. But she thinks it must be her imagination, because he always looks away, and when he looks back, there is nothing but keen intelligence and a slight affection in his expression. Still – it makes her wonder.

Sometimes he opens his mouth as though he's going to say something, and it's almost as though he actively bites his tongue. She confronts him about it, once – and he pretends he doesn't know what she's talking about.

 _"You were going to say something to me," she insists._

 _He hesitates, mouth twitching in the corner. "No, I wasn't."_

 _And as her concerned expression focuses inward, he frowns and corrects himself. "Well, I was. But then – I forgot. What I was going to say."_

 _It's the most ridiculous thing she's ever heard him say, and they both know it._

 _"You…forgot?" She draws the words out slowly, disbelieving._

 _He stares at her for a moment, and then swallows. "Yes. I forgot."_

And he's lying to her, for some reason – but it's awkward enough as it is, and she reasons that perhaps he's just belatedly developing his internal filter. Maybe, she thinks, he's finally realizing when things he's about to say are _a bit Not Good_ and he's stopping himself from saying them, at least to his friends. It's a logical enough analysis, and she accepts it without any more discussion – but still, she wonders.

But the strangeness continues. Not enough for her to confront him again – but there are little things – things that she inadvertently stores away in her memory – hints that he is changing – that he has _changed_ toward her, somehow.

One day, after he has stayed with her to work on some samples as she finished her shift, he hails her a cab before he heads home. A book falls out of her bag as she climbs in, and before she can even reach for it, he is handing it to her. Her fingers brush his palm as she takes it with a " _thank-you_ ", and packs it away, distracted for a moment. When she looks back up, he is staring at her again, and his hand is still hovering in the air, just inside the cab door.

Her brows draw together, and his fingers twitch before he curls them into a fist that he lets fall to his side as he steps back. It's almost like he was – _restraining_ himself – and she wonders.

About two weeks after Baker Street has been refurbished – about mid-November – she offers to cook a 'housewarming' dinner for him and John and Rosie (and Mrs. Hudson, too, if she'd like). Sherlock is viewing samples from a case under a microscope at the opposite end of the table that she is working at, finishing cataloging her own samples from a run-of-the-mill death.

"After all," she jokes brightly, "the kitchen will probably only be fit for human meal preparation for another two weeks, and then we'll have to blow it up again and start all over."

There is a sudden silence and stillness from Sherlock at the end of the counter, and Molly blanches. "Sorry-" she begins, berating herself – _too soon, too soon – or maybe not too soon, it's just that this is one of those things it's NEVER appropriate to joke about –_

But then he's…laughing. His shoulders shake for a moment, and he pushes his bench back from the countertop and he's _laughing._ The sight of him makes a smile bloom on her face – the first genuine, spontaneous smile she's had in a long while – and he looks over to her and meets her eye.

The laughing trails off, and his face turns somber – but there is still a warmth in his eyes as he swallows and looks down for a moment, regrouping. When he looks back up at her, he nods. "I think," he begins, and looks away again. "I think John and Rosie would – I think we'd _all_ like that. Thank you."

She smiles. "Great. So…mmm…does Friday work, then? I'll come by after my shift ends at 5 and we'll have dinner around 6:30?"

Sherlock is staring at her strangely again, but she's becoming more and more used to it. He blinks and gives one sharp nod in affirmation. "That works. Thank you." He looks back down at his samples, and she thinks that is that.

It takes her about twenty minutes to finish her work, and when she's done cleaning up, she pauses at the end of the bench, where Sherlock is still staring intently at his samples.

"Um, I have to go, okay? Are you staying for a bit, then, to finish up?" She asks.

He answers with one jerk of the head, and she's almost to the door when he brushes past her, flinging his jacket on, in a rush.

"You were wrong," he mutters to himself, and he's shaking his head.

"What?" She asks, confused. "Who was wrong?"

"You were. I was. We were both wrong." He answers roughly.

"Wrong about what?" She runs through their current cases in her head, but can't seem to think of anything they'd been wrong about. The cases this week were all pretty standard.

He doesn't answer, and he soon disappears from her view.

"Wrong about what?" She asks the empty hallway.

And then she sighs as she realizes his samples are still sitting on the table in the empty lab.

 _Bugger._

* * *

She was wrong.

She was so, so wrong.

He loves her as _so much more_ than a friend.

She was wrong, but he was – even more so.

He's been seeing that it Technicolor for the past several weeks.

John's words about being in love echo in his head, and simply confirm the depth of his feelings.

He can no longer deny that he is physically attracted to her, in a way that is fierce and desperate and new to him. He wants to touch her - caress her – hold her – kiss her. He wants _all_ of her.

He never minds her company. He's purposefully visited her when bored and irritable, just for the sake of seeing if she irritated him further. She didn't.

He _prefers_ her company. He _wants_ her company. He wants to share meals with her, and discuss work and cases, and play ridiculous versions of mundane games, and experiment.

She has always seen him, even when he didn't want her to. Now, he wants her to.

She is dearest and closest to his heart, in a way that John never was, though Sherlock loved him, as well. He is hesitant to tell her, though, because the last time those words were said, they were like a wet blanket that nearly smothered her love for him, and he could not bare it if it happened again.

Besides - how can he tell her, when he can't guarantee that he will always, always feel this way?

* * *

The half hour Sherlock spends with her alone - before John comes over after picking Rosie up from daycare after his shift – is easy. Just being with Molly, like this, is easier, now. He is watching her hover over a pan, a sauce fraught with vegetables simmering inside, pasta boiling on another burner. She'd brought all the food pre-prepped, so all she had to do was throw it on the stove, and she'd shoo'd him away from helping.

He's content to watch her, sitting back against the dining room chair, eyes flicking between his phone and her back - steam from the meal making the tendrils of hair at the back of her neck and sides of her face curl, just a bit. He felt just a twinge of regret at hearing John swing the door open, arms full of Rosie and her things.

"Smells amazing in here!" John says enthusiastically, and Sherlock hums in agreement. Molly snorts. "No – really -" he insists. "I can't tell you how many times I've come over here and it's smelled of burning hair or flesh or who-knows-what, and this, I think – is the best it's ever smelled."

Molly smiles to herself, and her eyes are bright and her cheeks are rosy and she is obviously very happy.

"You enjoy it, then? Cooking?" John asks with a smile as he gets Rosie settled in her high chair.

Molly pushes a strand of hair behind her ear with the back of her hand, placing the finishing touches on the garlic bread before placing it in the oven. "I do. I really do."

Sherlock leans back, and his face is relaxed, the closest it gets to happy without actively smiling. "It makes you feel close to your mother." The observation is soft and…approving.

John's head turns sharply, surprised at both the observation and the tone in which it is given. He worries, for a moment, that Molly will be offended, or reminded of painful memories, but her lips turn up at the corners as she checks on the pasta and sauce on the stove. "It does."

She wipes her hands on a clean towel, and turns so that she leans against the counters in front of the sink. "My mum was a great cook. I started learning from her when I was really young – maybe three or four? She let me help mix and dump in ingredients she'd measured. And as I grew, it was something she and I did together a lot. My other siblings weren't as interested." She wrinkles her nose at a memory, and then continues. "After she died, I kept cooking. She wrote notes in the margins and I felt like it was something I could still do _with_ her. And it was something uncontaminated by Meghan. My sister," she explains at John's slight look of confusion. "It was pure mum. I still like it. I've got most of her recipes memorized, now, but I still have her cookbooks at home. I like to read through them, and through her notes, when I miss her, sometimes. It's a nice memory of her."

John nods, swallowing wordlessly. His expression is suddenly pinched, and is quiet until Molly serves the meal, and – no longer distracted by cooking – she notices the change in his demeanor.

"I'm – I'm sorry-" she falters, but he dismisses her concern with a sharp nod.

"No – no. It's – I just – haven't thought about – how Rosie-" he clears his throat, and the friends take a few silent bites of the food.

"I'm a bit rubbish at cooking," he says quietly, after a moment. "I mean – I made do, before Mary, but – Mary-" he blinks and frowns, and his thumb rubs circles on the side of the table. "Bread – she was best with bread. You know…"

"She was," Molly says softly, and John darts a glance at her face. "Her sourdough was amazing. And she made me a lemon pound cake, once. It was delicious."

He nods, and sighs. "D'you think-" He frowns, and tries again, meeting Molly's patient gaze. "D'you think, when she's old enough…you might help me teach her, to make bread, like -" he presses his knuckles into the tabletop – " –like her mum?"

Molly smiles. "Of course. I'd be honored. Though, I'm sure I'll never come close to her sourdough. Bread is tricky. But we'll learn together."

John nods, and places a hand on her arm, squeezing gently. "Thank you, Molly. We are – so lucky to have you." His voice sounds a bit strangled, and Molly quickly leans over and gives him a short embrace and a peck on the cheek.

"I'm lucky to have you," she says brightly. "All of you. Aren't I, Rosie?" She turns her attention to the nearly one-year-old girl in the highchair, and tickles her toes. "I'm so lucky to have this Baker Street family, huh?"

There's something in the way she places the emphasis on Baker Street, and Sherlock frowns. He participates marginally in the rest of the dinner conversation – enough to seem like normal, preoccupied Sherlock – distracted by a case or experiment or what have you.

After dinner, Sherlock 'helps' John clean up (still lost in thought, so that all he really does is pass John the pasta bowl or wipe crumbs off the table), and Molly entertains Rosie in the living room.

They visit for a short while, Sherlock absentmindedly picking at his violin strings as Molly and John discuss Rosie's development, Hank and Nina's most recent comments about her napping habits, work, and the latest films coming out at the cinema. It's all friendly and mundane and something that would have, in the past, caused Sherlock to jump to his feet in frustration and loudly complain about boredom.

As it is, it provides a sort of warm white noise – a soft, welcome murmuring of voices that his mind recognizes and trusts so completely they can be shifted to the background of his thoughts, like his own breathing.

His mind is still stuck on Molly's _family._

John leaves with Rosie about an hour after dinner is finished, and as Sherlock's brows are still furrowed slightly in concentration, Molly quietly prepares to leave as well.

He notices her by the door in his peripheral vision and shakes himself into the present.

"Molly," he stands, smoothing his button-up and moving to the door, reaching out to hold her bags as she dons her coat and hat. She tugs her hair out of the collar of her coat and turns to take her things back, smiling up at him.

"Thanks, Sherlock. It was a nice visit. Rosie's grown so much, though I suppose babies do that, don't they?"

"Mmm." He blinks for a moment, and clears his throat. "We are lucky. We are incredibly fortunate to have you. All of us." It's said as an add-on - as if just now, he's realized he agrees with John's earlier assessment and is casually confirming it.

But he looks a bit sad as he says it, and Molly's smile shrinks, though it also becomes warmer and more genuine.

"Are you happy, Molly?" He asks quietly, and the question surprises her.

She leans back just a bit, lips pursed as she contemplates the question. After a few seconds, her smile grows again, and she looks her friend in the eye. "I am. You know, Sherlock, I really am. Things – everything is getting better, now isn't it? Better than it was before -" she catches herself – "before, even. I am happy. I'm – getting better every day." She looks at him curiously.

He swallows and nods in response, his face relaxed somewhat, and she is tempted to throw her arm around him and give him a peck on the cheek, like she had with John, earlier.

But there's still something _there_ , in her heart that holds her back - because she doesn't want it growing out of control, again.

And so she rests a hand on his forearm and squeezes it affectionately. "Good night, Sherlock." She says softly, and opens the door, closing it behind her.

He lets out a long sigh, staring at the closed door before him.

"I'm...not," he whispers.

* * *

"What made you stay?" Sherlock asks John, as their torches illuminate dust particles hanging thickly in the air of the old theater. They make their way backstage, stepping over old ropes and sandbags and rusted levers, heading towards a room with a crooked door labeled "PROPS N COST M ", several gilded letters worn away from time and actors leaning against the door.

"Wha – _here_?" John asks, taking a moment to swipe cobwebs away from his face, frowning. "Well, I wasn't keen on waiting on the street. Not exactly the nicest part of town to be loitering on a Saturday night. I've got a meeting with Hank and Nina tomorrow and I'd rather not go in looking like I took part in a cock fight."

"No," Sherlock says, his voice dropping to a mildly irritated warning tone. "What made you stay with Mary, after she shot me?" When the door will not open with a jiggle of the handle, he shoulders it soundly three times before it gives way, groaning in protest and leaving a cloud of dust that obscures their vision momentarily.

The two men step inside, clearing their throats of dust.

"Don't act like I'm an idiot, not keeping up with the conversation. Two minutes ago, the last words out of our mouths were, and I quote:" He flip open his notepad, squinting at his chicken scratch shorthand in the dim light of his torch. "You: 'Yes, brilliant! So simple – so very simple, John. They've made us out to be the dummies.' Me: 'If you're expecting a laugh for that joke, it wasn't very inspired. I think I made a similar one several hours ago and told me 'not to make jokes, John'. You: 'The _code_ , John. It's _carved_ into the doll.'" John flips his notepad shut and tucks it into his pocket. "And then, you remained totally silent for the twenty minute ride here. So don't act like _I'm_ an idiot for not following your leap from 'a code carved into a ventriloquist doll' to 'why I didn't leave my wife when I learned she'd shot my best friend and lied about her past'!"

"Hmm," Sherlock grunts, carefully making his way through the old room. He tilts his head and squints for a moment, rewinding his train of thought. "Solved the case on the way over – just need confirmation. Texted Lestrade the address, as we may have company within the next half hour as well, if we can't find the…thing…" his voice trails off as the beams of light from their torches illuminate the surprisingly organized costume and props room. Someone has been here recently. Even John can see that this room lacks the disarray found in the rest of the abandoned theater, and that there is a distinct lack of dust on the majority of the props neatly lined on the shelves.

All of which are dummies.

Some are quite old, jaws gone crooked from lack of use and deterioration, limbs splayed at awkward angles, eyes hanging on by threads – some missing entirely.

Some are new – clearly made of plastic as opposed to wood, shiny, with wide red mouths and barred teeth and polyester costumes.

Some are in between, older and yet much more well cared for than their neighbors. A few might even be called 'pretty'.

And in piles around the room, mounds and mounds of spare parts – arms and legs and heads, in various conditions.

Both men swallow at the unnerving sight. "Creepy," John whispers, as if expecting them all to turn their heads in unison.

Sherlock shakes it off quickly. "Mmm. Would be 'creepier' if they were _real_ human body parts. Let's be glad this criminal is obsessed with ventriloquist dolls." He immediately begins peering into the doll's faces, looking for their client's original dummy, that was stolen and replaced with a look-alike. "So," he continues impatiently, motioning for John to begin looking, as well – "what made you stay?"

John sighs, shaking his head. "Hope when you finally work up the nerve to talk to Molly about love you don't do it in the middle of a hostage situation or while investigating hazardous waste in the lab," he mumbles.

"What?" Sherlock asks sharply, and John clears his throat, moving his torch across the doll's faces as well. Some are incredibly life-like.

"Nothing," John sighs. After a moment, he continues gruffly. "I stayed because, even though I felt…betrayed, and hurt, and…angry – I loved her. Even after that – I still loved her."

The two men work in silence for a moment, and John thinks that perhaps Sherlock won't be asking for clarification this time.

Until –

"There's a difference, then. Between – being in love, and… _love_." His voice is neutral and scientific.

 _He's going to drive me insane._ John shivers as his torch brightens the face of a particularly hideous dummy.

He startles at the flash of blonde near his shoulder.

 _You already are, a bit, you have to admit, love._ Mary chastises him gently, a mischievous smile on her lips. _Go on, then – tell him the difference. Let's see how you do, darling._

John sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose and waving her away, letting the circle of light move from the shelves to his feet. After thinking for a moment, he begins gruffly.

"There is a difference. That feeling – the near-obsession, infatuation, heady high of being 'in love' – that isn't what real love is. It can start it off – but feelings fade, and feelings lie. Those feelings cycle through. Real love isn't just a feeling, though it can feel good, too. Real love is committing to care about a person, in your thoughts and words and actions, even when you _don't_ feel like it – even when those feelings aren't there right at that moment. Real love is sacrifice and hard work and choice – choosing to value another person's well-being and happiness as highly, and even more highly, than your own."

He hears Sherlock make a soft 'aha' noise, and thinks he's either had an epiphany about love, or he's found the dummy.

He's found the dummy.

 _Well, you did your best. I thought it was a lovely explanation,_ Mary consoles John. _Also – get ready for a bit of a scare, darling._

She vanishes, and John frowns in confusion – and as Sherlock rounds the corner of the shelves to present his prize to John – the entire line of dummies just to the right of John's shoulder move their heads to look at Sherlock. Their eyebrows drop, making their expressions angry, and their mouths open in unison – a single hissing noise escaping their lips.

" _Put him back,"_ their mouths move angrily. _"Not yours. Not yours!"_

Both Sherlock and John take two large steps backward, crashing into the shelf opposite.

It's a bit too much for the old metal work to take, and it starts off a domino effect – crashing one shelf into another, until the five behind the two men rest in a heap, and all the dolls with them.

The line of dolls across from them click their jaws angrily. " _Nooooo_!"

And then they go slack.

" _Move_ , John!" Sherlock shouts, shoving his friend out of the way, just as a shadowy figure drops onto him.

It takes a wild-eyed, nearly hyperventilating John a full ten seconds to realize that the shadowy figure is, in fact, _not_ some sort of dummy-demon intent on possessing his friend – but a man dressed in black, who'd been manipulating the full line of dummies and using his talents from a make-shift catwalk just above the shelf with the talking dolls.

It takes a full ten minutes to pull them apart, and another ten for Lestrade to arrive.

It only takes five minutes for Sherlock to rapid-fire explain that there are, in fact, _two_ separate criminals in this investigation – the insane dummy-thief with his collection of pilfered ventriloquist dolls, and the original owner of the doll – a mobster who utilized the code carved into the wooden body of his doll to torment his ex-wife.

It takes a full week to write the blog post, and another week to edit it.

* * *

By the time John has posted the Tale of Two Dummies, Sherlock knows what he has to do.

 _Real love is committing to care about a person, in your thoughts and words and actions, even when you don't feel like it – even when those feelings aren't there right at that moment. Real love is sacrifice and hard work and choice – choosing to value another person's wellbeing and happiness as highly, and even more highly, than your own._

He's going to test himself and his love, and he knows how to do it.

* * *

His hair is redder than Molly's.

Sherlock wonders which of her siblings her sister's hair favors. He, personally, prefers Molly's – her long dark hair with warm red undertones.

His hair is redder than Molly's, and though Sherlock can't make out his eye colour from this far away, he can tell they're watery and red, from the way he keeps blinking and rubbing at his nose.

He's got a hoody pulled over his head, that shock of red hair a stark contrast to the dingy once-black, now-gray fabric around it. His hands are shoved into the front pocket, and it's not enough to keep him from shivering in the late November air.

He paces in front of the house, hesitation playing as he steps toward the door, and then turns away from it. He shrugs his shoulders a few times, shakes his head, and then turns back to the door.

Sherlock knows this dance. It's one he's done a few times, himself. For the first time, he is the one intervening.

"I'd pass on this one, if I were you," he drawls slowly, stepping out of the shadow of the stoop.

Michael Hooper startles and steps backward, his face turning immediately from one of defeat and relief to one of defensive anger. "Who the hell are you?"

"No one," Sherlock responds. "And I won't stop you. Go in, if you want. I know what it feels like. I've been there. Here. To this very house, actually," he sighs, turning on his heel and looking up at the doorway, his shoulder a meter or so from Michael's.

"So…why 'd you pass on this one, then?" Michael asks warily. "Their stuff laced with something? Deal go bad?"

"No," Sherlock responds, voice even. "My brother found me here, and it was never quite as…satisfying, afterward." He drawls out the last two words.

Michael scoffs. "So, you want me to avoid this place because it holds 'bad memories' for you? Yeah, oh-" He gives the man beside him exaggerated side-eye.

"No," Sherlock says, and he is struggling to maintain a neutral tone. "I think you should avoid this place because it holds bad memories for _you_."

Michael steps away from the tall detective and rubs his nose, sniffing suspiciously. "Says who?"

Sherlock turns to face Molly's brother. "It's obvious. Your hesitancy to enter isn't _just_ because you've been clean for the past…six months. This was were _it_ happened, isn't it?"

Michael frowns. "Where _what_ happened?" He shifts from foot to foot, shivering, rubbing his hands anxiously on his pants.

Sherlock peers at him for a moment. "You saw a friend die. Perhaps even held his hand as he went. I'm not sure if it was an overdose or murder, but you witnessed it, and it drove you to sobriety. But it's hard, isn't it? To stay off the sauce when the majority of your friends and connections are either addicts or dealers. To stay clean for so long, you must've had someone detoxing with you. Someone holding you accountable. Friend? Lover? Doesn't matter. They're gone now – whether through an argument or a more permanent end, they're gone. And you're craving a fix, but you've been pacing up and down in front of this house for the past forty minutes, wondering if it's worth it – if any of it was worth it, to begin with. You want _distraction._ "

Michael's hands still, and he stuffs them once again into his hoody pocket. He glances down at the ground, and then up at the man across from him, giving him a hard look. "Who _are_ you?"

His eyes are brown - and so very much like Molly's. Even red-rimmed and watery, he can see the connection; the relation.

"The name is Sherlock Holmes."

Michael snorts. "The detective? I thought you were made up." He peers at him again, and the searching in his gaze is also very much like his sister's. He's _perceptive._

"Made up?" Sherlock asks, wrinkling his nose.

"Yeah, you know – like the 'Queen's forbidden lover' or something. The Enquirer isn't exactly reliable coverage, you know? Or…at least…exaggerated. Some of those stories are pretty ridiculous."

Sherlock steps back, blinking. He's had people doubt his _abilities_ before, and he's met people who haven't heard of him, sure – but he's never had someone doubt his _existence._ That's new.

Michael lets out a frustrated huff of air. "But…I guess you're real. I mean – you're here. And you…you knew a lot. 'Bout me. How'd you know all that?" He gives Sherlock another skeptical glare, but there's curiosity there as well.

Sherlock rocks back on his heels. "Mmm, had your every move followed for the past…year?" He lies.

He's not sure why he lied, but he doesn't have time to think about it long.

"No." Michael shakes his head, disagreeing. "Why the hell would you have a random druggie followed? I don't know you. You don't know me. There is no reason you could possibly give that would have me believe you'd have me followed for a year. Even an undercover copper would've made contact by now – and I'm not even a dealer, just a user."

He leans forward a bit. "But you do know what's happened to me. How'd you know that? Research? But how'd you research me before you found me? Why me?"

Sherlock tilts his head marginally, face neutral. "Come have a coffee. I'll tell you."

Michael shakes his head. "Why d'you want me away from this house so badly?" He shrugs away.

Sherlock turns, once again shoulder to shoulder with the man, looking up at the entrance.

"I don't." He says flatly. "Not particularly. But…I'm trying something new. Personal growth."

The addict glances at him from the corner of his eye. "What, helping me's some sort of 'Good Samaritan' pat on the back for you?"

Sherlock presses his lips together. "Yes. And no."

The two men stare at the door for another moment or two, and then Sherlock turns away. "Your choice. Free meal, and an explanation to satisfy your curiosity and distract you, at least for a day. Drugs will always be there tomorrow, if you still want them."

Michael stares at the detective's retreating back for several long seconds, and then looks back to the house again. After a moment, he shrugs, and then jogs to catch up with the strange man in the black coat.

* * *

"Mmm," Michael grunts, nodding in encouragement as Sherlock continues his explanation – which was pretty much what he'd predicted in the first place – research.

The detective had connections – other addicts and homeless network, friends and favors in a wide variety of flavors. He'd simply asked around, found Michael, and then asked around some more to piece together the man's whereabouts the past year. A few clever but simple deductions led him to meet the man today.

"Yeah, all right," Michael says, waving off the last deduction. He leans forward, forearms on the booth of the small hole-in-the-wall they'd stopped in for sandwiches and coffee. He fiddles with the paper from the sugar packets, and narrows his eyes at the level-headed man across from him. "But why _me?_ Of all the addicts in London – why _me_?"

For the first time since they'd left the drug house, Sherlock sighs and looks away. He presses his lips together in thin line, and clears his throat before meeting Michael's gaze again.

"I know your sister."

Michael sits back immediately, eyebrows raised, and shakes his head. He shifts to exit the booth. "Whew, then, mate. Thanks for the meal, I'll-"

"Molly," Sherlock clarifies. "She works at the hospital I frequent with the Yard."

Michaels stops his hasty retreat, drumming his fingers impatiently at the end of the table. "Yeah, I know. Bart's, is it?"

Sherlock nods. "I've seen pictures of you in her flat." He swallows quickly, because the next part is a lie – but he's not about to tell the truth to the man across from him. "She's told me a little about you, and I deduced the rest. That's how I chose you."

Michael looks down at his scruffy shoes for a moment, thinking. "She's still got pictures of me? In her flat?"

"Yes. She…misses you. But - " Sherlock is hasty to add – "she didn't ask for this. She has nothing to do with this. This is about me. If you ever decide to see her again – and I wouldn't, not without being clean for another six months, yet – I'd prefer if you didn't mention me."

"Mmm." Michael nods in acknowledgment, but neither agrees nor disagrees.

After a few more moments of silence, he stands, stretching his neck and shoulders. "So – what now? You found me, talked to me, and what? Kept me from drugs for the day and that's your good deed, is it?"

Sherlock stands, tossing some bills on the table. "Not entirely. If you're interested in work, I've got plenty of connections. All are free from the temptation of drugs, but require no drug tests, and there are no questions asked. I'm owed a few favors. If it's distraction you're after, I can help you there. It wouldn't be boring." He smirks.

He hands Michael a card, with a number written in blue ink. "Think about it, and call if you're interested."

Michael stares at it for a moment, turning it over in his hands. "And if I'm not?"

Sherlock shrugs. "I'll find someone else."

"Mmm."

Sherlock leaves, and Michael stands by the stained Formica tabletop. Before he goes, he tosses his hood over his head and shoves the card in his pocket.

* * *

 _He comes regularly._

 _Twice a month, at least – sometimes three or even four times._

 _She knows the Other Brother comes, too – but he at least stays away, where she can't see him._

 _The first two times he comes, it's all she can do to sit and listen – muscles tense and back perfectly straight – afraid to move, lest she chase the light away._

 _The next two times – as he plays, she moves – very slightly – little by little, until she is facing the glass, instead of the wall. Her eyes are still closed. She's afraid to look._

 _The next time – she looks. After he's been playing for a while, after the light has permeated the fog of Lost-ness, she sneaks a look at him. His eyes are on her, and she squeezes them shut quickly again, her face a placid mask._

 _Inside, though – inside – her heart is beating rapidly, and the small upturn of his lips as her eyes met his is engrained into her memory._

 _And so the next time, she forces herself to watch him._

 _And he's…he's happy. Still sad – but happy, too. Happy she's looking._

 _He's encouraging and insistent and she drinks him in like a shriveled plant in the hot sun._

 _By the time snow starts to fall in December, she will stand and face him for the entirety of his concert._

 _The light lingers longer, now._

* * *

Christmas at Baker Street is a curious affair. The weather seems to know a lavish outpouring of holiday cheer is somehow inappropriate, and so flurries fall but never stick – resulting in gray slush that matches the gray skies overhead. It is the first Christmas for Rosie, and the first Christmas without Mary. It is the first Christmas in years that no-one asks Sherlock to host a party, and if he's being honest – he misses it, just a little.

Not the ridiculous music or decorations or even the food, of course.

But he misses Mary, and witnessing all of his friends in the same room.

John does host a small get-together, and Molly helps decorate and cook.

They make lemon bread and sourdough in honor of Mary, though it's not nearly as good as hers, and dozens and dozens of sugary treats and fattening hors d'oeuvres.

Sherlock does not exchange gifts with Molly then, opting to watch his friends heap pile upon pile of presents upon his goddaughter.

The day after Boxing Day, he meets Molly in the lab, and slides a small, brown, unwrapped box toward her.

She blinks in surprise, and then looks up at him, a small disbelieving smile on her face. "Is this – is this a Christmas gift? For me?"

He clasps his hands together behind his back. "Well, it's poorly wrapped-"

"-it's not wrapped at all, actually-"

"-but it is a gift. For you."

He can feel his heartbeat crescendo as Molly opens it, and he hates himself a little bit for it – but he holds his breath.

Her eyebrows rise in surprise. "A key."

"Mmm. For Baker Street. You don't have one. You borrow Hudder's, when the occasion arises. But – I wanted you to have your own. You're…always welcome," he adds gruffly.

"Oh! Thank you."

To his surprise, she grasps the key in her hand and dashes to the attached office where they file the lab work – and returns a moment later with her key ring and a small box (wrapped carefully in shiny blue and silver paper) that she hands to him.

"For you," she explains unnecessarily, and begins to fumble with her key ring, fingers slipping in her effort to add his key to her collection.

He watches her for a moment, the wave of relief that she both appreciated and liked his present outweighing his need to open hers, immediately. He looks down at his prettily wrapped box, and slides a finger under the wrapping, pulling it carefully apart.

Inside is a new blue scarf (an exact replica of the one he'd ruined a few months ago), and a pocket stash of steri-strips –

"For emergencies," Molly explains, having successfully added the Baker Street key to the lanyard with her flat and mailbox key and her lab and morgue keys. "Now you'll have a way to keep yourself from ruining more scarves, until you can make it back to Bart's."

He swallows. Their gifts are practical and yet he aches strangely inside, and he thanks her quietly.

Molly returns her lanyard to its place in the office, and then returns to the lab. "Now," she continues – "did you want to see-"

\- and she stops short, because Sherlock is no where to be found.

She's left wondering, the rest of the day, if he really came to the lab for the sole purpose of exchanging gifts with her.

* * *

Time passes quickly after Christmas, each month marked with new cases and new research and new milestones for Rosie – and, if she's honest – new milestones in her friendship with both Sherlock and John. Mary's death and the Sherrinford trauma shifted the balance of power in their small circle – and she's left, for the first time, feeling like an equal with the two men. She's no longer a lifeguard waiting on the sidelines. She's a member of the team, now – and she's enjoying it.

Molly stands outside her door after covering the second half of Bonnie's shift for the second time that week (a late-April stomach bug making its rounds), and combs through her bag, searching for her keys. Her messenger bag is stuffed full of reports to organize for her most recent research paper, and the keys she'd carefully set on top of the pile had shifted and fallen to the bottom on her ride home. She can hear Toby mewling on the other side of the door, and she is so focused on retrieving her keys that she doesn't hear him, the first time.

But she recognizes his voice.

"Because really, Molls, losing your keys was a problem when you were _ten_ , I'd have thought you'd outgrow it by now _-_ "

Her head snaps up in shock, her hands freezing in place inside her bag.

Her shock must show on her face, because her brother stops talking, a nervous, cautious smile blooming on his own. He's wearing khakis and a polo with some sort of logo over the pocket, and he's clean-shaven. His dark red hair is long, nearly covering his ears - but neat – and his brown eyes are clear and serious.

He is _clean_ , and by all appearances, has been for several months, at least.

"Hi," he tries again, pulling a hand out of his pocket to give a half-hearted wave.

"Michael!" She gasps, and drops everything she was carrying on the ground. Lip balm rolls out and away, and her keys jangle from somewhere still deep inside the bag, but she doesn't notice.

She throws her arms around him and he grins, picking her up and swinging her around, returning her embrace.

He puts her down after a moment and keeps one hand on her shoulder to steady her, a goofy smile still spread over his face.

She pushes her hair behind her ears and smiles back at him, though she's trying not to grin too obnoxiously. She's still got a lot of questions, after all.

He puts his hands back in his pockets and rocks back on his heels. "So…" he says, giving her a little smirk. "What's new? It's been awhile."

She raises an eyebrow at him, shaking her head. "Do you want to come in?" She asks.

He swallows as a loud mewl sounds from the other side of the door. "Um…I don't know. Do I?"

She rolls her eyes and bends to pick up her things, finally successful at finding her keys. She turns triumphantly to her brother, and gives him a warm look. "…Yeah. I think you do."

* * *

Two days later, John is busy cleaning an unfortunate poo explosion. (Rosie was happily sitting there when she'd made a complete mess of her outfit, herself, and her poor father's favorite chair.) Rosie is freshly cleaned and dressed, and Mrs. Hudson is sitting on the couch, attempting to distract her from 'assisting' her father and making the mess worse. Sherlock stands beside the fireplace, walking back and forth before it, stopping every once in a while to make a note on the sheet music he is working on for his sister.

He pauses, listening, and turns to the door just as Molly floats through it, a barely suppressed smile on her face. John hears and straightens from his repulsive task, turning just in time to see a positively radiant Molly greet everyone in the room with a sunshine smile.

"He's back," she announces quietly, thought it doesn't take away from her joyful appearance.

John wrinkles his nose as he bags up the last of the soiled washcloths, thankful that the majority of the waste was on a blanket of Rosie's, and not on the chair itself. "Who's back, then?" He asks, glancing between the rubbish bag's ties and Molly. He can't help the small smile tugging at his own lips, her happiness is so tangible.

"Michael. My brother." She clasps her hands and looks around the room, catching Sherlock's neutral smile and John's growing one, as well as Mrs. Hudson's surprised look, as she sits back a bit on the couch.

"You have a brother?" She asks, confused.

"Yes. He's – he's an addict. Was an addict. He…I hadn't heard from him in years. But he came back a few days ago. He's been clean for a year, has a job, has – he has a _girlfriend-_ " she giggles, and John's fully smile breaks through. Molly crosses the room the sit in front of Rosie, tousling her god-daughter's curls and good-naturedly receiving the slobbery kiss bestowed on her as she continues relaying the tale of the Prodigal Brother's return.

He only half-hears her explanation of how her brother decided to go cold turkey after witnessing the death of a friend, then found a job through generous stranger and met an amazing woman named – Adri – something – Molly's words turn to a dull hum in the background, however, as he glances across the room to his friend.

Sherlock is staring at Molly, and his face is – well. John has never seen an expression so tender and warm on his the great detective's face in all the years he's known him. He looks younger, somehow – and it's an expression so genuine and emotional and _unlike_ Sherlock that John looks away after just a few seconds. His own expression has changed to one of shock; his eyebrows puckered together in the middle and his mouth open, just a hair.

Just as quickly, his eyes narrow, and he peers back to his friend.

Sherlock's face has changed to one of impersonal contentment, a barely-there, neutral smile in place of what was there only moments ago. He catches John's eye and raises his eyebrow a fraction, as though questioning John's concerned, disbelieving gaze.

 _Bloody hell,_ Mary intones good-naturedly just behind his right ear. _It was him, wasn't it?_

John blinks for a moment as his late wife sighs in his ear, saying something about how t _he great git must have listened to all those answers you gave him -_ shaking his head and schooling his features into a pleasant mask, trying to mimic Sherlock's.

 _Well done, love,_ she whispers lovingly. _Well done._

And when he finally refocuses on what is going on around him, Sherlock has moved to his chair, plucking his violin distractedly while listening to Molly field questions from Mrs. Hudson. All the while, Molly is trying in vain to keep Rosie from sticking her chubby baby – nearing – a – toddler fingers in her mouth.

And John Watson smiles crookedly at his daughter, peripherally aware of everyone else in the room – and he can't help but agree.

For everything that's happened, they've all done pretty damn well.

But Sherlock Holmes still has a bit of explaining to do.

* * *

 **A/N: Sorry again! We spent the summer having a sort of technology hiatus and it was lovely - but I hope you enjoyed the latest (and longest ever) chapter. Pregnancy brain is real, so please forgive any spelling/grammar mistakes - and feel free to PM me if anything is terribly distracting.**

 **Two more chapters to go! And two and half months until our second baby girl arrives! Oh, the countdown is on!**

 **Thank you, thank you for all of your lovely reviews. I am so, so happy that you are enjoying my little daydream about what happened after Season 4.**

 **Until next time, then!**


	10. The Long Path Home

**A/N: Hello! Please enjoy this latest update. As always, thank you, thank you profusely for all of the reviews, favorites, follows. They give my day a little lift when I'm up to my elbows in diapers and dishes and can't see my feet for my full, bulbous, bowling ball of a belly.**

 **Please be patient with Sherlock. He may seem a bit frustrating in the beginning, but I think you will forgive him by the end of this chapter.**

* * *

 **The Long Path Home**

 _"I'm not the man you thought I was, I'm not that guy. I never could be. But that's the point._

 _That's the whole point. Who you thought I was... is the man I want to be."_

 _-_ John Watson _, "The Six Thatchers"_

* * *

John Watson may not be a consulting detective, but he doesn't miss the way Sherlock's lips curve up – the smallest bit – when Molly hugs him good-bye. It is a trifling look – one of satisfaction and maybe just a hint of triumph – but he sees it.

She's so quietly, exuberantly happy – wrapping them all, one by one, in a quick but heartfelt hug - that she doesn't notice - but John does. Because he's looking for it.

After Molly leaves, with Mrs. Hudson right behind her – John turns to the man across from him and crosses his arms across his chest. "Well?"

Sherlock raises an eyebrow and moves nonchalantly to his chair, picking up his mobile and beginning to flick through it. "Well, what?"

"It was you, wasn't it? You had something to do with…that." He nods to the closed door.

Sherlock gives him a blank look. "With what?"

John shakes his head in frustration. "With Molly's brother coming back around."

"No idea what you're referring to." He returns his attention to his mobile.

"Mmm." John sits, frustrated, and glances at the clock. Bollocks. Rosie's nap is an hour behind schedule, which means bedtime tonight will be later than usual, as well. He stares hard at his friend across the room, until about twenty minutes later, when Sherlock looks back up.

"That was risky, you know."

Sherlock puts his mobile face down on the armrest and crosses one leg over the other, making himself comfortable. "What was?"

"Getting involved with her brother. For multiple reasons. Addiction. Drugs. You could've been setting yourself up for failure, and there's no guarantee he'll stay clean, either."

Sherlock sighs, steepling his hands in front of his face. "I'm aware. Molly is a grown woman, however, and is also well aware of the nature of addiction. She's seen it in her brother, and in me, for years."

John raises an eyebrow. "So you're admitting to being…involved, then?"

Sherlock leans forward and rubs his hand across his face, shaking it for a moment. "I'm not admitting to anything. Just acknowledging that her brother could, one day, 'fall off the wagon'." He uses his fingers to make quotes, and pulls a face in distaste at the turn of phrase. "But I think… _Michael_ has a better chance than most, and in Molly's case - even _if_ he were to have a relapse, she would not regret the time she had spent with him sober."

John sits back. "Right. So you didn't do your whole 'predict everyone's lives to the minute' thing, here?" He waves a hand through the air for emphasis before crossing his arms in front of him again. "You didn't search her brother out and somehow…keep him sober? Convince him to go to rehab? See his sister again?"

Sherlock gives his friend a hard look. "You heard Molly. He saw a friend _die_ , John. A year ago – before Sherrinford and my sister ever happened. I can hardly take credit for that. He chose this – sobriety – on his own."

He reaches for a newspaper and sits back, opening it to the classified sections to see if there are any messages from his homeless network.

"However," he adds from behind the paper, "he may have needed a little help finding a steady job." He lets the paper fall, just a bit – and though John can only see his eyes above it – he can tell his friend is grinning.

John shakes his head and sits forward. "I – _knew_ \- you bastard!" He says affectionately.

"Mmm. Unfortunately, my paternity is well-documented."

John laughs. "So, are you going to…you know…say anything?"

Sherlock drops the paper entirely. "Like what?" He asks flatly.

John's eyebrows draw together at the sudden change in tone. "I don't know. Mention you know him? I mean, won't her brother-"

"I specifically asked him not to."

John frowns. "Why?"

Sherlock sighs and lounges back in his chair, letting the paper fall loosely from the hand at his side. He stares up at the ceiling. "I don't know how to tell her…what – we're just – she's _happy_ , now John. I don't want to interfere with that."

John nods, pressing his lips together after a moment. "Well, then. Why not just – start with how you feel?"

Sherlock snorts.

"Or, I don't know – properly ask her out? You've got to do _something_. I understand it's scary, yeah? But – you've got to _tell_ her. Show her. _Something._ "

Sherlock doesn't reply, instead, choosing to shift himself on his chair so that he is sprawled across it, head resting on one arm and his legs dangling off the other. His chin sinks into his chest and his fingers intertwine over his chest, and John sighs.

"Sherlock?"

No response.

John shakes his head and tidies up Rosie's things before retrieving the sleeping baby from her travel cot. She whimpers, and still, Sherlock remains lost in thought.

He pauses before the brooding man. "Let her _know_ , Sherlock. I can _tell_ you love her. And if you weren't trying so hard to hide it from her, she'd know, too. Don't – don't wait too long, mmm?"

John doesn't bother to wait for a response, knowing it will be a long time coming.

* * *

 _One day, he comes, and she's waiting patiently, a safe distance behind the glass. He brings an extra violin with him. He places it in the secure drawer and turns it to her before returning to his usual place, a meter so away from the wall of glass. He raises his violin to his chin, bow poised and ready to play, and nods in the direction of the gift._

 _She frowns and tilts her head._

 _He plays a short string of notes, and pauses again – waiting for her._

 _She's not entirely sure why – but it frightens her._

 _She's been safe – appreciating and holding onto his little gifts of light and warmth, and he's been safe, too._

 _And now – he wants her to play with him?_

 _Communicate?_

 _It's…intimate. Too intimate? She's not sure if she's ready._

 _He notices her hesitation. "Play with me, Eurus," he asks softly, and they are the first words he's spoken since she left him behind at Musgrave Hall._

 _He waits another moment, and then begins a tune from Bach._

 _Bach is safe. Bach is neither of them. It is perfection and beauty, a step separated from the two of them._

 _She swallows and nods, and retrieves the violin._

 _They lift their bows in synchrony, and again, they play._

* * *

 **Are you free Tuesday at 4? –SH**

 **I need your help with something for my sister. -SH**

Molly stares at the texts, blinking at her mobile in the locker room of Bart's.

 **It's a gift. Everything's fine. –SH**

She lets out a breath she didn't realize she was holding and shakes her head, closing her locker door and sitting for a moment on the bench.

It's been nearly ten months since the Sherrinford incident, and though she knows Sherlock has been seeing his sister somewhat regularly, she still wasn't entirely sure of what those visits entailed. She wasn't sure she wanted to know.

Still, Sherlock has been making big strides in _all_ of his relationships, and she's proud of him. It's bittersweet, but she accepts the new warmth to their friendship readily. She is also feeling particularly generous these days, since her brother's return.

Slinging her bag onto her shoulder, she types out a quick reply.

 **Sure. See you tomorrow. –xMH**

She sends her reply before she realizes it's the first time since Sherrinford that she's signed her texts to him with an 'x'. She pauses for a moment, blinking - and smiles, tucking her phone away.

* * *

Sherlock knocks at precisely 3:58 p.m.

Although he's been to her flat a handful of times since Sherrinford, this is the first time it feels – normal, again, for Molly.

He takes off his shoes and hangs up his coat and scarf and she's surprised to see he's also brought his laptop, a file, and his violin.

"Thank you for agreeing to help me," he says, and there's something…nervous about his demeanor, and her smile is one of concern.

"It's – fine. No problem. I'm glad to help. But – Sherlock – I'm not – I don't really know anything about music. I'm not sure how I can help with that."

"You know how to enjoy it, don't you?" He asks, crossing to her entertainment center and laying out several pieces of sheet music.

She frowns and crosses her arms. "Well, yes, of course, but-"

"You have decent taste, as far as your musical preferences go, and you're intuitive. You can – tell me, if it's too – emotional."

"Oh." She's not entirely sure what to say to that.

He looks up at her, and hesitates before beginning to explain. He stands awkwardly in her living room, violin and bow hanging uncertainly in his hands. "She hasn't spoken since –that night at Musgrave. She asked me to visit her, and I have been – but she hasn't spoken. When I first started visiting her, she wouldn't even move – wouldn't face me, she never – made any acknowledgment that she was even aware of my presence. Aware of anything. I've been playing for her," he explains, searching her face, willing her to understand.

She doesn't, not quite yet – but she'll try. "So – music – helps?" She asks uncertainly.

"Yes. She knows the schedule I keep, and she's waiting for me when I go, now. She's actually smiled, a few times. I gave her a violin, my last visit, and tried to get her to play with me. She's actually – brilliant, at improvising, composing, playing by ear – but – she refused to play anything but the classics. Bach, Mozart, etcetera. I thought – perhaps – if I could get her to play _herself_ again – give her a song I wrote for her – maybe she'd – not speak again, exactly, but – be less resistant to visitors. Perhaps be open to a visit from our parents." He smiles ruefully. "I don't think Mummy would be very partial to a visit that only entails looking at her daughter's back."

Understanding washes over her and she nods. "Okay. So – what-"

He nods sharply. "Just – listen. Thank you."

"Okay." She sits on the edge of the couch, and waits.

He plays for the next hour and a half, stopping every few measures to rework notes – asking Molly what she prefers, if a section is too melancholy or too falsely cheerful; too angry or choppy or too intense – and though she is uncertain at first, over the course of their time together she ends up laying on the couch, eyes closed, comfortable with their stilted back and forth as he changes notes or tempo here and there, offering and retrieving snacks – and returning right back to her position on her couch.

He plays the entire piece through three times, and nods in satisfaction.

"Excellent. Almost done. Thank you, Molly."

She sits up lazily, warm and content, and Toby jumps off from his perch on her legs.

"Would you mind helping me record it?" He asks, already opening his laptop.

"Um, sure – what do I-"

"Just press record, here, when I nod, and stay perfectly silent through the song. Please."

She nods, and records the music for him. Surprisingly, it only takes one go for Sherlock to be satisfied, and after listening to it, he carefully packs up his violin. She takes this as her cue to clean up as well, and picks up their tea and biscuits and fruit.

When she returns to the living room, Sherlock has cleaned everything up except for his laptop, which is still open to the program they used to record his sister's song. He's moved the coffee table toward the bookcase, and shifted the couch and armchair so that there is a small open space the size of her area rug. He stands beside the laptop, as stiff and formal as she's seen him since John's wedding, and he shifts uncomfortably on his feet.

"Sherlock?" She asks uncertainly.

"There is – _one_ more thing, I could use your help with," he explains, eyes darting around her living room, before landing on her. "It's – it's meant to be – a sort of waltz. I'd like to make sure it – moves correctly. Not just plays right – but – _moves_ , as well."

"Oh?"

He takes a tentative step towards her, and holds out a hand, somewhat rigidly. "If it's all right – may I - have this dance?"

" _Oh._ " Her mouth forms a perfect 'o' as she understands what he's asking. Swallowing down her apprehension – and the butterflies in her stomach – she smiles at him. "Of course. I'm not - much of a – _waltzer_ – but – sure."

"It's all right. I can lead." He swallows as well, and his eyes move meaningfully from his outstretched hand back to her.

" _Oh,_ right," she laughs nervously, and steps forward to take his hand.

He presses _play,_ and the sound of the song they'd worked on together that afternoon fills her flat, and they begin to dance.

He pauses a few moments in to wordlessly adjust her positioning, giving her a small smile as he does so – and then he leads her around the small space, moving surprisingly gracefully.

"You're good at this," she murmurs, attempting to avoid staring into his eyes as they dance.

"Thank you. I enjoy dancing." He replies simply. "But – it works better if you keep your head up."

"Ah. Okay. Sorry." She takes a steadying breath and looks up at him, and he smiles at her again – that small, private smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes, and her shoulders relax more comfortably into the dance.

Something happens, then – a change in body language, a slight warming of his expression – she's not sure – but he pulls her just a bit closer – _it's just for the dance – dance – dance – how nice, dancing with one of my best friends -_ she chants in her head, keeping time with the music – but her heart is struggling to agree.

 _Because it's not just silly or fun – they're alone, and it's private, and it's – not simply platonic. Not for her. Not yet._

When the song is over, they freeze in position where they stand for just a _split_ second too long – and he gives her that smile again.

"One more time?" He asks, his voice low, and before she can convince her heart that it's not a good idea – she agrees.

He presses _play_ once more, and they resume their waltz.

This time, when she meets his gaze – she moves closer to him of her own accord – because – there's – _something_ – something _there._

* * *

It's gone perfectly, the whole afternoon.

As they dance, he _wants_ to tell her. He _wants_ her to know – he'd spend a _hundred_ afternoons like this, with her. A _thousand._

It's like he can feel the words behind his lips, pushing against his teeth – and he takes a breath, and steps back so he can more properly read her reaction.

Her eyes are big and dark and searching, and he swallows.

 _He's said it once before – and then implied it again, when he said he meant it. Why is it so hard, now?_

"Molly," he says, and her name is lovely on his lips.

She says nothing, just stares up at him, waiting –

-And then there is the sound of loud knocking on the door, and a voice unfamiliar to Sherlock –

"Um..Molly, we're here! Unless you've got company, in which case, we-"

"We're _still_ here!"

The second voice is insistant, and much more familiar.

Molly pushes her hair behind her ears and gives Sherlock a questioning glance.

He looks away, and his arms fall to his sides as he quickly moves to his laptop and turns off his music.

The voices outside the door are arguing good-naturedly, now, though in quiet tones so that it's difficult to decipher what they're saying.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock watches her. She bites her lip and rubs her arms briskly for a moment, careful to keep her expression neutral – though he can tell he's disappointed her, somehow. He curses himself and the people at the door internally, but there's nothing to be done for it now. The mood and courage he felt moments ago is gone.

"I guess I'll get that, then," Molly says, smiling half-heartedly. "Sorry, I forgot Michael and Adri were bringing dinner tonight." She looks at the clock on the book shelf. "It _is_ after six."

"Adri?" He asks, puzzled.

"My brother's girlfriend," she reminds him, and opens the door.

"Molly!" Michael enters first, giving her a bear hug and then removing his shoes by the door, giving Sherlock a _look_ that Sherlock returns with a frown.

"Michael," she greets him warmly, and holds the door open for Adri to enter, as well.

"Hi, Adri," she adds, as Adri slips her shoes off to add to the pile near the door. Adri is carrying a pizza and a bowl with a large salad, and Molly quickly takes it and places it on the counter.

Molly turns to introduce her friends and blinks in surprise at the guarded looks Sherlock and Michael are giving each other. "Sherlock, this is my brother Michael – and his girlfriend Adri. Michael, Adri – this is my friend, Sherlock."

Sherlock and Michael seem to shake themselves from whatever mood seemed to have caught them. Sherlock gives both a strained smile, taking Adri in and finding nothing of importance - and quickly gathers the rest of his things.

"Oh, no – don't leave because of us. There's plenty, if you want to join," Adri says.

"That's – fine. Thank you. I really should get home. I need to – practice this piece a few more times."

"You _wrote_ that?" Adri asks, clearly impressed.

"Yes," Sherlock shifts uncomfortably and darts a glance at Michael. "Molly was just – helping me with it."

"Hmm," Michael says, unimpressed. "Didn't realize slow dancing was a form of 'helping' these days."

"It's a waltz. A gift for my sister," Sherlock explains seriously, narrowing his eyes at the red-headed man. "I had to make sure the timing was right. She's…particular."

He glances at Molly, who is giving him a strange look – and smiles gently – reassuringly – at her.

"Thank you, Molly. I appreciate your help."

"Um – anytime," she returns his smile, opening the door for him as he exits.

* * *

She closes the door behind him, frowning for a moment, embarrassed and somewhat angry at herself for apparently misreading Sherlock's expression moments ago.

She sighs heavily before shaking it off and turning to face her guests.

"Thanks for dinner. I'm sorry I lost track of time." She gives Michael and Adri an apologetic look.

Adri snorts and winks at her, shaking her tight curls out of her face and moving around the counter to add dressing to the salad. "Oh, don't apologize. I'd lose track of time, too, if I was helping _him_ write a waltz."

" _What_?" Michael asks, a disgruntled look on his face.

Adri laughs. "Oh, you've got nothing to worry about! You're the only man for me, Michael. But I've still got _eyes_ , honey."

Molly laughs, and Michael gives them both a sour look.

He stands at the counter for a moment as Molly begins to set the table for dinner, and Adri finishes the salad.

"Excuse me," he mumbles, and Adri raises her eyebrows at him.

"I think I left my mobile in the - car," he explains, and is out the door before Adri can tell him it's in his jacket pocket.

* * *

"What the _hell_ was that about, then?"

Sherlock sighs, and waves away the cab that just stopped at the curb for him. He turns to face Michael and raises his eyebrow. "What was what about then?"

"You – you let me believe you and my sister – were just – work colleagues. _Casual_ friends. You just _happened_ to hear about me – I should've known – you've been to her flat, seen pictures of me – how could I have been so _stupid-_ "

"-most people are. You're one step ahead of most for realizing it. And really, you should give yourself credit. You think much more critically than the majority of the population, and that's _with_ a history of drug use."

Michael shakes his head, refusing to be dissuaded by his cool disdain and backwards compliment. "You fancy her, don't you?"

Sherlock doesn't answer; he simply stares neutrally at the man in front of him.

Michael narrows his eyes at the stubborn man across from himself. "Don't deny it. I _saw_ you, through the window. Dancing. You deliberately mislead me. You _lied_."

Sherlock's expression does not change. "No, I did not. I told you I knew your sister from work. That is true. I told you I saw pictures of you in her flat, and that she missed you. Also true. Nothing I said was a lie."

"But you weren't honest with me."

"About what?"

"About your _intentions._ "

Sherlock rolls his eyes in disgust. "Oh, _please._ She was helping me. With a waltz. For my _sister-"_

 _"_ _-don't_." Michael interrupts. "I've – I'm _not stupid._ I know what we saw. You were going to kiss her!"

"I was _not._ " Sherlock insists vehemently, and honestly somewhat surprised – at Michael's observation, and his own reaction to it.

"Well, from what I saw - _she_ thought you might. Or that she would kiss you. You can mislead _me_ all you want, but _don't_ mess with Molly." Michael retorts, and his voice raises in volume.

Sherlock pauses for a moment, thoughtful, and narrows his eyes at Michael. "You think – she was - we were going to kiss?"

Michael gives him a withering look. "You both looked like you might enjoy swapping spit. But if that's _not_ what you want, don't you _dare_ give Molly the idea that you'd enjoy it."

Sherlock runs a hand through his hair, frustrated – because it's none of her brother's business, but for some reason he feels like a fraud, denying his feelings toward Molly, now - and throws out a hand, questioning. "What - what is this? Are you going to ban me from her life? Forbid me from 'pursuing a relationship' with her? You don't exactly have a clean record yourself, and yet _you_ seem perfectly content to bask in the light of…Addie?"

Michael sniffs and shakes his head again, never breaking eye contact with the detective. "It's _Adri._ And no. I'm not going to 'forbid' you from anything. Molly's a grown woman and she's quite capable of making decisions that I can respect. If she'll have you, you won't hear a word from me-" he hesitates.

"I sense a stipulation." Sherlock replies sarcastically.

"No, no stipulation. Just-" Here, Michael looks down, sighs, and meets Sherlock's eye again. "I know Adri is…on a different level than I am. I just want you to recognize that – Molly is, too. Don't - don't bring her down to our level." The last sentence is soft and somewhat wistful, but the warning rings through well enough.

"Noted." There is a steely note in Sherlock's voice.

Michael stares at him for another moment, and then nods. He turns to go back to his sister's, and Sherlock shifts, hesitating to leave.

"Don't worry," Michael adds, waving a hand behind him. "I still won't tell her you helped me. I don't understand why, but…I won't tell her. She'll notice eventually, on her own, anyway."

* * *

 _When he next comes, they start out with a nice piece from Beethoven. When it ends, however, Sherlock does not begin another straight away. Instead, he holds his instrument at his side, and looks at her, until she meets his gaze._

 _"_ _I wrote something for you," he explains. "You don't have to join in – not yet. But – it's – for you. A little bit of both of us."_

 _And she is flooded with nerves, and takes a step back from her usual place on her side of the glass, frowning._

 _"_ _Just listen," he pleads quietly. He raises his instrument and looks at her, waiting for permission to begin. She shifts on her feet and then squares her shoulders, ready._

 _He plays._

 _She listens carefully – eyes closed for the duration of the first time through. She hears the last drawn out note fade away, and gives a sharp flick of her wrist to indicate he should play it again._

 _He does._

 _She opens her eyes after the first few measures, watching him – curious, now._

 _His eyes focus on her and he nods._

 _This time, she just listens._

 _The melody stays in her head when he leaves, and she replays it for hours and hours._

 _Next time, she decides - she'll play, too._

* * *

The summer goes quickly, as Molly co-authors a small research paper, Sherlock solves two large, media-frenzied cases and continues visiting his sister (she has begun playing and improvising regularly, again – and her first visit with their parents went surprisingly well), and John balances investigating with Sherlock and being a father.

Sherlock doesn't make – nor is he handed – the opportunity to _tell_ Molly again.

Michael's conversation with him has not changed his feelings, but it has made him doubt his ability to convey them properly – and his ability to show them, in front of her, around others. He wouldn't want her to think he's – _ashamed_ , somehow, of his feelings – or that he regrets them.

There is a small period of about two weeks, around the anniversary of Mary's death, when he retreats into himself and truly _does_ begin to doubt if he would be able to make Molly happy.

And then Richard Handler, specialist in blood-borne pathogens, arrives for a lecture series and month-long mentorship program, before continuing on to his next destination in Germany.

He's not much taller than Molly, but he's got a way of carrying himself that makes him look taller and confident. His sandy brown hair is always sort of messy, even though it doesn't even reach the tips of his ears – it sticks up at odd angles and makes him look a bit like a mad professor. His green eyes are just a little too small for his face, but he could still be considered attractive. He smiles all the time, and he notices people – he thanks the janitors and compliments the canteen workers and tips imaginary hats to visitors in the halls. Somehow, it never seems fake. He's also actually pretty good at what he does. Not quite on par with Molly, of course – but his knowledge of his area of specialty is top-notch, and he's got a gift for explaining his subject matter in a way that is easy to understand. Sherlock prefers straight-forward science, of course – but he grudgingly admits the man is a good teacher. He's _genuine_ and _intelligent_ and _kind_ and _jovial_.

Richard Handler also likes Molly.

The first time he observes their interactions, it's obvious. He's not flirty at all – very professional – but Sherlock can tell, because there's something in the way his smile changes when he's addressing her, and something in the way he gravitates toward her in their interactions.

Sherlock _wants_ to hate him. He wants to tear Richard Handler down like he did Jeremiah Schmidt. He wants to _obliterate_ him.

But the thing is – he can't.

Because Richard Handler is the real deal. He's genuine. He's worked for his knowledge and shares it well, and he's neither pompous nor falsely humble about it. He's even friendly with Sherlock. (Well, as friendly as one can get. Sherlock still hasn't spoken to him or returned a single greeting from the man.)

It's strange, really. He spoke to John about it once, and John said he was jealous, but it's not – (well, it is jealousy, a little bit) – it's more – a feeling of failure.

Here, right in front of her, is a man that is seemingly _perfect_ for Molly.

And it's been almost a year since Sherrinford – and he can't seem to be anything more to her than a decent friend.

Since Sherlock can't seem to get it together enough to ask her out – and since she hasn't approached him since that night they were dancing – he thinks – maybe he's too late. Maybe she'd prefer a fresh start with someone else.

Maybe she doesn't want to be anything more than friends, now.

And so, when Richard Handler catches the lift to the morgue with him, Sherlock doesn't pretend to be deeply interested with his mobile. He slips the device into his pocket and presses his lips in a thin line in response to the friendly 'hello'.

He stands awkwardly in silence for all of six seconds after the doors close before he darts a glance from the corner of his eye.

 _Tapping absent-mindedly on the pocket that contains his mobile, lips twitching every now in then in the pattern of regular speech – he's going over something in his head – the frowning, the blinking, the nicer shirt than normal – he's even adjusted the pad of paper and pen that always sit in his lab coat pocket –_

"Ask her," Sherlock says plainly, after a moment.

Richard blinks for a moment, eyes darting side to side, obviously wondering if Sherlock was addressing himself, or some other nonexistent person in the lift with them.

Sherlock sighs. "Don't bother with a round-about, rehearsed line of dialogue that leads to 'hey, I _just_ realized -would you like to join me?'" He widens his eyes and gives a fake smile, the question falsely peppy in his voice. His expression quickly falls back to normal, and he turns his eye on the doctor beside him. "Just ask her to dinner. Or whatever else you were going to ask her."

Richard blinks, a half-smile hesitantly playing on his face. "Um – you – are you – talking about-"

"Well, you _were_ going to ask her, weren't you? Molly Hooper?" He struggles to keep his tune neutral.

"Well, yeah, but-" Richard shakes his head incredulously.

"You've got several personality traits in your favor. There's a decent chance she'll accept." _78%, actually, but he won't get into that, now._

Richard stares at the doors before them, processing this strange first conversation he's having with the infamous detective. "Really?" He asks, but more to himself.

"Sure." Sherlock sighs impatiently as the doors open and Richard exits.

"Well – thanks. Thanks." Richard gives him a respectful nod and turns in the direction of the morgue.

Sherlock turns in the opposite direction and whips out his mobile, blindly scrolling through messages and emails and texts, attempting to distract himself from what is most likely happening down the hall – but unable to make himself witness it firsthand.

* * *

Ten minutes later, he's figured Doctor Handler has had ample time to _ask,_ and so he heads to the morgue.

He's nearly smacked in the face with the door swinging open, and Doctor Handler moves to return to the lift, stride quick and purposeful and professional – he doesn't even register that he's nearly hit Sherlock with the steel doors.

Or maybe he does – because – Sherlock realizes, as he observes the man press the button to return to the upper floors – Molly turned him down.

 _Molly_ _turned him down._

The relief rising up in him is quelled somewhat by his disbelief.

He enters the still-swinging doors, and Molly looks up from her stitching, giving him a smile and nod before refocusing on her work.

"You turned him _down_?" He asks, incredulously.

She looks back up at him, frowning and blinking behind her goggles. "You-"

"-deduced him on the way down. We shared a lift. Why did you turn him down?" He waves away her question before she can even get it out.

She places her tools on the tabletop and places a gloved hand on the waist of her already-soiled lab coat, her other hand gesticulating in front of her. "Because-"

"-because he – he was _perfectly_ compatible. Two doctorates, similar line of work, capable of holding an intelligent conversation, decent teacher, well-liked, unnecessarily kind to just about every human being in existence…" he paces back and forth as he talks, mostly to himself, and Molly lets her free hand (and her mouth) hang in shock as he lists the gentleman's positive qualities. "He's adventurous, cultured, speaks another language, and though he's not the _most_ attractive man, by societal standards, his physical features are balanced and not unpleasant…" he mutters on for a few more moments before freezing in place and turning a critical eye on Molly.

" _Why_ did you turn him down?" He repeats for the third time.

She blinks and shakes her head, before returning his critical, peering gaze, raising an eyebrow in amusement. "You know," she says slowly, "he's probably _just_ caught the lift, if _you_ want to catch him. Since – he's so great. And everything." She suppresses a smile.

It takes Sherlock a moment to realize what she's implying and he quickly frowns, eyebrows drawn together. He shakes his head vehemently. "No! No. I am _not_ interested in that. _Anything_ like that -"

She smiles to herself, and picks up her tools again –

-but this time – _this_ time – he adds just two simple words to his general disgust and refusal of relationships –

"-with him."

Molly looks up in surprise, but Sherlock is still frowning to himself.

"Well," she says softly – "neither do I."

It is Sherlock's turn to look up in surprise, and she is staring at him now, curious.

He holds her gaze, and his expression slowly – every so slowly – turns from one of bewilderment to one of relief. His lips turn up in a small, satisfied smile, and her heart beats just a _little_ bit faster.

"I have no desire to start a relationship with a man who travels the globe for a living. I like London. I like my job, my friends…besides," she can't help but add – because now, she's beginning to _suspect_ – but if he's not going to do anything about it, she's not going to dwell on it, either. She's done aching for him, and these two little incidents are enough to make her wonder and suspect he may be feeling something for her – but not enough to open that door herself, again. "Besides – even if it _did_ ever work out with him, traveling all over the world, me staying in London – I couldn't _imagine_ being a Mrs. Dr. Dick Handler."

She keeps a completely straight face until recognition flashes across his face, and then bursts into laughter.

* * *

 _She's got equal parts fog and light, now. And when the fog becomes too dense, she plays their song, over and over._

 _She's seen her parents. And Mycroft._

 _It wasn't – it wasn't like she thought it would be._

 _They were quiet, and observant, and radiated warmth (and in her mother's case, impatience.)_

 _They've come a few times, and she doesn't mind their visits – but she likes the private ones, more. With just her and Sherlock._

 _She's gotten used to their routine – the playing – beginning with classical composers, and – if she agrees, if she's feeling up to it – songs of their own composure._

 _It's mid October when he plays a new song for her._

 _She frowns, because he seems nervous. Not about the song – but about her hearing it. It's – tentative. Uncertain._

 _So she plays opposite him. When he's playing in crescendo, she quiets herself. When he decrescendos – she plays loudly, in question. He's up, she's down. He's heavy, she's light._

 _'_ _What is wrong? What are you hiding?' She challenges him through her song and expressions._

 _He stops playing entirely, and frowns, debating internally with himself._

 _Finally, he looks up again, and his gaze is deep and searching._

 _She stares back, unafraid, because though she still doesn't trust herself fully – she never will again – she trusts that she will not attempt to outwit and outmaneuver the safety measures in place to keep her from hurting him again._

 _He seems satisfied with what he sees there, and nods slowly, staring at his violin before looking to his sister again._

 _"_ _It's Molly's Song," he explains._

 _Her eyebrows raise in understanding and surprise, but she gives him a nod, and her expression remains unperturbed._

 _He's afraid – afraid of her, of Eurus – that she'll somehow try to hurt Molly again, that she'll hurt them both – if he admits that she was right. He's also afraid of himself – that he will hurt Molly. And of course, he is afraid of Molly herself. Fear of rejection, she understands._

 _So she gestures for him to play it again, and he does._

 _Again._

 _He does._

 _Again._

 _By the third time, he is much less apprehensive, and some of him, and a bit of her – Molly- comes through._

 _It's nice._

 _Pretty, even._

 _But not beautiful._

 _Not perfect._

 _Not yet._

 _Again._

 _This time she plays with him, stopping him when she hears something not right. She helps him rework it – playing and offering several options – until he finds the one that fits just right for that part of the song._

 _They spend their next three visits working on Molly's song._

* * *

In early November, Molly bursts into 221B, distress evident on her face.

Sherlock and John are there together, Rosie with her daycare – and both men stand when she enters.

"Molly," Sherlock forces out, voice low and concerned.

"What's wrong?" John asks simultaneously.

It takes Molly a moment to calm down and catch her breath. There are no tears, but her expression moves between anger and worry.

Sherlock and John exchange troubled glances.

"It's Michael," she finally spits out, and throws her hands in the air in frustration.

Sherlock and John's expressions mirror one another – one eyebrow raised, lips pressed together – waiting expectantly, but not surprised.

She notices, and shakes her head. "It's not drugs," she says. "It's – he's lost his job." She snorts bitterly.

Once again, both men's expressions change simultaneously to one of slight confusion.

"He punched a colleague in the face for making - racist remarks about Adri -" she's still struggling to get her words out, in between deep breaths. "And he got – fired."

Sherlock frowns. "Really?"

"Yes, really!" She snaps. "And Adri was _there_ , she was meeting him for – lunch, so he's not – making it up to cover up – drug use, or whatever – whatever it is you're thinking."

"No! No," Sherlock protests. "I didn't – it's – where does he work?" He asks lamely.

"For - for Walter. At a – some packing and shipping center. Warehouse. Thing." She waves her hand through the air. "Kryszke Brothers Shipping?" She squints, as though trying to remember. "I guess – the guy he punched was a – nephew, or something."

She pauses and looks expectantly to Sherlock.

He shifts uncertainly. "I'm – sorry," he tries. "That's…terrible? I think Michael was most likely justified in his protest."

Molly shifts herself, unimpressed.

"Is there – something you'd like us to do?" John asks uncertainly. "Because I'm not sure there's a case here-"

"No, there isn't," Molly agrees shortly. "But I came to ask Sherlock – you've got lots of connections, right? Isn't there – could you help him find a new job? Please? I know you don't owe him anything, and it would be a favor to me - but - "

Sherlock swallows, and something warms inside him – because she came to _him_ for help. The _first person_ she came to, when something was wrong – was _him._

"Of course," he says softly, and she smiles beautifully in relief.

" _Thank_ _you_ ," she says warmly, and wraps him in a quick embrace.

"Thanks John," she says somewhat apologetically. "I've got to get back to work, but – I'll see you both later, yeah?"

"Yeah," John nods, a smile creeping across his face. "See you later, Molly."

After she leaves, he keeps shaking his head knowingly and smiling shrewdly at Sherlock.

"What is _wrong_ with you?!" Sherlock asks, annoyed, after catching that particular _look_ for the fifth time.

"Nothing at all," John responds breezily. "Just wondering when you'd stop _seeing_ and start _observing_ that you two are bloody perfect for each other, and get around to _actually_ asking her out."

Sherlock rolls his eyes and makes a half-hearted jab in return, but he can't help but feel frustrated with himself all over again.

Because yesterday, during his visit with Eurus, she'd implied the same thing.

* * *

 _She's waiting for him, violin poised to play, and as soon as he is settled – she begins with the opening lines of Molly's Song._

 _But it's not to help him write it – because they've finished with that, two visits ago._

 _No – it's a question._

 _Molly's Song?_

 _He knows exactly what she's asking, but the answer is no._

 _He hasn't played it for her. He hasn't given it to her._

 _She gets almost angry for a moment, but quickly moves on to Chopin._

 _They play for the remainder of the visit, but as Sherlock packs up – she plays the first few bars of Molly's Song once again._

 _This time, it is not a question._

 _It is a command._

* * *

On December 22nd, Molly holds her hand to the knocker of 221B, presents for Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock heavy in the bag over her arm, and doesn't even have to follow through with the first knock before Sherlock opens the door, scarf wound tightly and Belstaff buttoned fully against the bitter cold.

"Oh!" She exclaims. "Sorry – were you going out – I was just stopping by to deliver your Christmas presents – yours and Mrs. Hudson's. I stopped by John's yesterday, since I'm going with Michael to Meghan's this year-"

"It's fine!" He interrupts. "More than fine. Not important. Come in." He holds the door open for her, and she stands in the entryway, stomping the slush from her boots.

"Thanks," she says. "Um – d'you mind, really, if I leave them both with you? I've got to go home and finish packing. We leave tonight, and I've got a cab waiting."

"Nope," he responds. " Don't mind. Wait here."

She waits uncertainly for a moment as he bounds gracefully up the stairs, and returns in a moment with a nicely wrapped box for her.

Molly assumes it's from Mrs. Hudson, until she sees Sherlock's familiar scrawl on the wrapping. She smiles, because it's the first time he's ever wrapped a gift for her.

He exchanges his gift for her small bag and pulls his present out of it, eyeing it carefully. He looks mischievously at her, eyes questioning, and she laughs.

"I guess we can open each other's now. But you make sure Mrs. Hudson gets hers."

He carefully opens her gift, and stares in shock at what she's given him.

It's a key.

A key to _her_ flat.

He thought he'd never get another one, and he was – okay with that.

He's blinking, mind racing at what this gift might possibly mean – if it means anything at all – but he's interrupted by Molly's gasp of delight when she opens her gift.

"Oh," she breathes. It's an original copy of Margaret Costa's _Four Seasons Cookery Book_. Underneath is a thumb drive. She immediately lifts the cookbook from the tissue paper it is cradled in, and looks up at Sherlock with awe and appreciation on her face.

"My mum – she – my sister has refused to give me this one – how-?" She asks eagerly.

He shrugs sheepishly, but she's already turned to the thumb drive.

"What's this?" She asks.

"Music," he explains simply. "Some is classic, some is the violin version of…of popular songs I thought – you like, there's a few – originals on there – the song you helped me with for Eurus-"

He seems embarrassed, and his speech is stilted, but the cab driver gives an impatient _honk_ , and Molly quickly places the drive and cookbook back in the box.

Before Sherlock even registers that that's what she's doing – she stands on her tiptoes and gives him a quick kiss on the cheek. Her lips are cold and he blinks at her, struggling yet again to decipher what it _means._

She steps back and gives him a warm smile. "Thanks, Sherlock. I love them. I've got to go. We'll – I'll see you after the holidays, yeah?"

He nods, eyes still unseeing, and the door closes behind her.

He lifts his hand to his cheek, still tingling from the impression of her lips, and there's a war inside him – thrilled – because – she _kissed_ him – and she's never done that before – and yet – dread - she seemed so unaffected by it. _Surely, she's moved on?_

* * *

Molly doesn't get a chance to open the thumb drive before she leaves for Edinburgh with her brother and his girlfriend. She leaves the book at home (no use taking it to her sister's), and quickly packs her essentials, along with her laptop and the thumb drive. She was going to bring the laptop for work, anyway, and hopes she'll have time to listen to the music Sherlock's given her on the way. She's not sure why, exactly, because his gifts as of late have been exactly the sort of gifts you'd expect Sherlock to give, were he truly dedicated to finding the perfect gift for a friend – but she still wonders, really, about him. About them. And she's starting to second guess her stance of staying quiet about it all.

She doesn't have time to wonder long, however, as she meets Michael and Adri at the airport, and then in Edinburgh, meet their Great-Aunt Nan, and travel to her sister's for the holidays.

* * *

Sherlock, for once, goes voluntarily to his parent's on Christmas Eve, and on Christmas Day, the entire family, including Mycroft, visits Eurus. It's a strange, new sort of normal – the same old bickering and eye-rolling and coddling, and then – pulling it all together and going as a family to visit a maximum-security facility on the Most Holy Day of the year.

Sherlock and Eurus play – classical tunes, a short melody composed by Eurus that encompasses each of her family members –

 _Mummy – she points with her bow – and plays a sharp, commanding tune – not foreboding, though – like a – swan, poking her cygnets into order._

 _Daddy – she points to him – and there is a slower, more leisurely refrain – like a flower blooming._

 _Mycroft – and this piece can only be described as grudging – angry at times, but at the end – an uplifting phrase. Forgiveness?_

 _Sherlock – slow and sorrowful moves to a more upbeat melody, and she ends, looking questioningly at him, with the beginning refrain from Molly's Song. A question, again._

He takes a breath, and replies in confirmation – playing the entire thing for her, and then – moving into Eurus's Song. (She doesn't need to know Molly hasn't actually _listened_ to it yet – but he _has_ given it to her.)

Eurus lifts her chin and nods in grim approval before joining him for a round of Christmas carols to pacify their mother.

* * *

The holidays at Meghan's are – as Molly expected – somewhat strained, as Meghan can't help but watch Michael like a hawk, and ask thinly veiled questions about his job, habits, and 'rehabilitated' lifestyle.

But Molly deeply enjoys her time with Michael, Adri, and Aunt Nan, and even gets a few moments with her nephew, Nathan, to herself. When he's not so focused on being the image of a perfect son, he actually has a little personality, and Molly finds she likes joking with him about bodily fluids and the likelihood of St. Nicholas _actually_ making it down their old chimney.

It's Boxing Day, and Meghan has reworked the leftovers from Christmas in a way that is both impressive and intimidating. As they sit around Meghan's dining room table, Meghan asks Michael yet again about his new job.

"I just really can't believe you lost your old one because of physical violence!" She says yet _again_ , giving Nathan a _look_ that says – _see what can happen if you lose control of yourself like that_?

There is a collective sigh around the table, and Michael takes Adri's hand defensively, placing a quick kiss on her knuckles before giving his sister an even, measured look, that says he's had about all he can take. "Like I said before, _Meghan_ , I regret the violence, but not the passion of my reaction. I should've gone straight to the supervisor, and if it wasn't handled appropriately there, pursued other channels." It's the prim and proper response Meghan has been looking for, and she nods in sage agreement. "I love Adri, and will do anything for her. Especially stand up for her to racist nut jobs."

Adri smiles at him, and squeezes his hand affectionately. "Appreciated. But honey, next time – learn how to throw a decent punch, yeah?" She winks teasingly at him, and rubs her thumb over the scar on his knuckles from his adversary's teeth, that will probably be there forever, now.

Meghan frowns at her insinuation that perhaps next time Michael will also punch the daylights out of someone, and primly redirects the conversation toward Michael again. "So," she says, taking a sip of her wine, "tell me again how you managed to get a new job so quickly? For a – greenhouse, yes?" There is thinly veiled suspicion in her voice.

Molly sighs loudly. "For the third time, Meghan, I asked a friend to help him find a new job."

"Who?"

"Sherlock," Molly mumbles into her wineglass, knowing what is coming next.

Meghan shakes her head, eyes narrowed. "And everything is – good, there?" She asks.

They all know she's not asking about Michael's pay or hours or co-workers. She's been angling all weekend to see if the 'greenhouse' is actually a cover-up for a drug manufacturer, and is just itching to say 'Aha! I _told_ you using a drug addict's connections to find work for another recovering addict was trouble! Come work with my husband! They're always hiring, and then I'll be able to know _all your business, all the time!'_

Michael sighs. "Yes, Meghan, everything is 'good'. This greenhouse is well-known in London, very reputable, passes environmental inspections regularly, owner is a beloved member of the community. No drugs. Nothing secretive or shady going on – unless you count the owner regularly donating his produce and profits anonymously to organizations and people in need."

"Well," Meghan sighs, "I'm glad for that. Really. I'm happy Sherlock Holmes has finally done something _nice_ for this family. Though I'm sure he let you know in no uncertain terms it was a one time favor, and you _owe_ him." She rolls her eyes good-naturedly.

Frowns grow on Molly and Michael's faces, and Adri just looks confused. "Not at all. I mean, he _can_ be sarcastic, and has a really dry sense of humor – sure – but what do you mean? He's always been decent to Michael and I."

Now Molly looks confused. As far as she knows, Sherlock's only ever met Adri the one time at her flat – _maybe_ twice, if he saw her when helping Michael get a new job.

Meghan snorts. " _Sarcastic?_ More like purposefully insulting. Have you even met him? I mean, aside from a short introduction in a hallway or something?"

 _I'm wondering the same thing,_ Molly thinks.

Adri raises an eyebrow, and her voice. " _Yes,_ I have met him. We see him regularly – a few times a month, at least – he comes by to check up on Michael all the time, has been for months – since before _we_ were dating, at least – I'm not always there, but I can tell you he's a pretty good - _ow!_ "

She stops suddenly and turns, confused and angry, to her boyfriend. A _what the heck was that?_ expression is painted on her face, and Molly can tell he's kicked her, not so subtly, under the table.

Meghan is oblivious, and laughs outright. "Yeah, I'm pretty sure you're confused, Adri. _Sherlock Holmes?"_

"Yes!" Adri replies defensively. "I'm-" she finally breaks away from holding her own against Meghan's imperial stare and takes in the looks passing between Molly and Michael. "He's – he's not _bad._ He-" she looks at Michael, slinking down his chair, a hand rubbing vigorously over his forehead. "What am I missing, here? Was this supposed to be some sort of secret?"

At that one word, Meghan leans forward, like some predator having just caught the unmistakable scent of prey. "A _secret?_ Michael – you're keeping secrets about meeting Sherlock Holmes regularly?"

"Michael," Molly says quietly – and her voice cuts through Meghan's like a knife. "Explain. Now, please."

Michael clears his throat, and straightens, and explains.

It takes nearly ten minutes, and a few clarifying questions from Molly, but eventually, it all comes out – how he was close to relapsing, and Sherlock caught him in front of the drug house and offered him a job – over a year ago, now, with the caveat that he not mention his involvement to Molly. And that he's been visiting several times a month, to make sure the job is still holding his interest enough to dissuade him from drug use – not that he needs a check-up, now.

"I don't think I even really _needed_ him to find me a new job," he explains gruffly to Molly. "I mean – I appreciate you asking for me – it did help speed things up a bit, having a record and history of drug use, and all – but – I think I'd have been fine without his help. I haven't even – _thought_ of – you know." He shrugs – "in quite a while."

"So," Molly says slowly, dazed – trying to work through everything that her brother has just told her. "Sherlock found you last November."

"Yes."

"And…helped you…with a job. To stay clean."

"Yes."

"And he's been – checking up on you? For – the whole past year?"

"That about sums it up, yeah."

"Why?"

She's looking at her brother, eyes wide and searching, wondering – and yearning to hear – she's not exactly sure, what.

Michael swallows and looks at his plate. "Well. I think you'd probably know better than I would."

"Wha-?" Molly asks thickly, but she can't seem to get anymore questions out, and chooses to retreat into herself, seeing every interaction with him – since Sherrinford, since their conversation at John's house, afterward – from an entirely new perspective.

"What?!"

Several voices exclaim at once. Meghan is looking very sour, and Adri looks as though a brilliant realization has just overtaken her.

"He – did it for _her_?" Adri asks, voice in awe, a smile breaking out on her face. "Michael Hooper, you're telling me that catch of a man has been in love with your sister for a whole _year_ and you haven't let me in on it?!" She smacks him good-naturedly on the shoulder, and he grimaces. He doesn't get a chance to explain, however, because his _other_ sister chooses that moment to explode.

"You're…you're…bl…er… _joking._ That's ridiculous, Michael. We all know what a – an insufferable – _git_ he's been to Molly over the years! He's used her position and feelings to – to – do things – for himself! To make things easier for him! He's – he's immature and doesn't care _one iota_ about anyone but himself! He's selfish and messes about with drugs and – and bad characters – he's using you too, Michael, I can guarantee it – this will end badly, I _know_ it! Molly – this is – this is on _you_ , too – because-"

"Hush, child." Nan's voice is strong and commanding, and the way she straightens in her chair is reminiscent of a queen rising.

Meghan stops mid-sentence and turns to her aunt in surprise. "Aunt Nan," she says patiently – just a bit desperately. "You don't know him like I do. He's – he's - "

"-brought your brother back to the family, helped him find a job, stay sober – apparently been a good enough friend for your sister to continue their friendship this long - and this is how you talk about him?" She gives her eldest niece an incredulous, imperious look. She then turns to Adri. "Adri, dear – kindly use your mobile to show me a picture of the man."

Adri eyes Meghan warily. "Well – I know we – we're not _supposed_ to have them at the table, but-"

"Oh, we've all snuck them on us, somewhere, child. I prefer a nice game of Candy Crush or Pet Rescue over talks of lacrosse myself."

"Aunt Nan!" Meghan hisses, looking wounded.

"Well, then," Adri pulls out her mobile and quickly pulls up a recent picture of Sherlock from a news site, passing the device to Nan. "There you are. Sorry Meghan."

She doesn't sound sorry – not one bit.

Nan pulls out a pair of reading glasses from the pocket of her blouse and adjusts them on the end of her nose. "Ah – oops! I think I hit the wrong button – no – ah – swipe – there we are. Hmmm. Oh, he's the _detective_." She exclaims in recognition as she looks over the picture, and then smirks over the mobile at Molly, who is still blinking in shock at the remnants of ham and potatoes on her plate.

"Well done, Molly dear."

"Wha-?" Molly asks dumbly.

"What?!" Exclaims Meghan. "Well _done_? He's a drug addict, Aunt Nan – he's manipulative and rude and takes advantage of Molly and he's-"

"We must know two entirely different Sherlocks, because he's never been any of that around _us-_ " interrupts Adri –

"Well, he can be a _little_ rude. Sometimes-" Michael admits –

"A _little_ rude?! I met him _once – once! –_ and he told me I was an overbearing control freak who smothered the intelligence and personality out of my husband and son, and that it was lucky Molly escaped when she did-"

" _Actually,_ " Molly says softly, "-it was more like he said you were trying too hard to replace our mother, when you should focus on being yourself and letting other people be themselves, too-"

"-You just saw it like that because you were in love with him! Are you happy now? After waiting around for him like a sad little puppy for _years_ you might finally get what you wanted – apparently a – a - _facsimile_ of a relationship with a-"

" _Enough._ " Aunt Nan's voice is commanding enough to quiet all the chatter at the table at once, and she takes several seconds to give everyone a severe look before continuing calmly. "Michael," she begins serenely, her wrinkled lips pressed into a fine line and a hard look down her nose reminiscent of Maggie Smith. "I am glad to see you are a man of your word, although next time you're sworn to secrecy, perhaps you'll think twice before agreeing to it when it involves the potential well-being of your sister."

Michael opens his mouth to argue, and then seems to think better of it, opting instead to nod and sigh "Yes, Aunt Nan," before swallowing nearly the entire contents of his wine glass.

Aunt Nan then gives Molly a small smile before turning to her eldest niece once more. "Meghan," she begins, and sighs. "Your sister has just learned that a man she has loved for years may, in fact, return that love. He may be a despicable, selfish, scheming man-child, as you have so described-"

Meghan straightens, a look of self-satisfaction growing on her face – but it is quickly wiped away with Nan's next words.

"-or he may, in fact, in the past several years your sister has known him, have grown to be a man of strong character, and wisdom to accompany his intelligence, who loves your sister enough to seek out and help her family, obviously neither expecting nor wanting anything in return. Your protests do nothing but make you sound petty and jealous. As you have not-so-subtly preened at Molly for years – she's chosen her life, and you have chosen yours. There is nothing wrong with settling down early, marrying and raising a family, and enjoying a quiet life in the suburbs. There is also absolutely nothing wrong with pursuing an exciting career and making friends who turn out to make grand gestures, the likes of which I have not personally heard of since reading about how Mr. Darcy sought out and returned Elizabeth Bennett's disgraced sister in that Austen novel. If you are proved right in this matter, you may feel free to tell us 'I told you so', though be warned it will only make the majority of us resent you. If you are proved wrong – which I highly suspect you will be - then you will be very foolish to say anything more on the matter."

Meghan's mouth snaps shut at that, and she breathes angrily through her nostrils, tears welling up in her eyes. "Excuse me," she mutters under her breath, and escapes from the table with little protest from the remaining occupants.

"And as for _you_ ," Aunt Nan continues serenely, turning to Molly once more. "Your sister may have been acting the fool tonight, but you dear, will be in competition with her if you remain at this table much longer."

This seems to startle Molly out of her reverie, and her own mouth finally closes completely. She licks her lips. "What – what do you-"

"Oh, come now, girl! You help solve bloody murders on a daily basis, surely you can piece together what you should do now. _Go talk to Sherlock Holmes_."

"Oh," Molly breathes. "Oh!" She pushes back from the table, dropping her napkin on her plate, and then hovering, hesitating between clearing it to the kitchen or turning back toward the bedrooms.

"Go!" Adri encourages her with a smile. "I'll take care of the mess here." She looks down at the table, and a slamming door from Meghan makes her grimace dramatically. "Well – I'll do what I can. Go get yourself a man, Molly." She winks.

"I'm not sure that's – that's not exactly-"

"Oh for goodness sake just go talk to him!" Nathan exclaims, rolling his eyes and slouching back in his chair, with all the theatrics his pre-teen limbs can muster. "This is boring. Can we talk about something else?"

"Manners, Nathan," his dad corrects absent-mindedly, already standing up to help Adri clear the table himself.

Molly doesn't notice. She's already halfway to the bedroom to grab her things, and she's caught the earliest flight possible from Edinburgh to London.

* * *

On the plane, she opens her laptop to check her email – trying to – she's not sure what, exactly. Calm her racing thoughts, her racing heart?

And at the bottom of her laptop bag, her fingers brush against the thumb drive.

She pulls it out, and after running her thumb over the smooth plastic for a few moments, plugs it into her computer.

The files quickly download, and she scrolls through the list of fifteen or so songs, observing their titles, until her eye catches on one in particular.

 _Molly's Song._

* * *

Sherlock sighs internally at the amount of refuse placed on the curb on his way home from John's. Torn wrapping paper, poorly dismantled cardboard boxes, and even a tree that was bought too early in the season and watered poorly overflow the rubbish bins and spill into the street.

Snow has started falling a day too late to contribute to holiday cheer, and the small flakes have begun sticking to the sidewalks just enough to leave clear footprints in their frosty wake.

As he comes upon Baker Street, he stops for a moment, his eyes drawn to his lounge window.

A light is on.

He is absolutely _certain_ he did not leave a light on, and Mrs. Hudson is not due back until tomorrow. It won't be Mycroft, because although he's most likely back in London by now – he should be in his own home, having had his fill of 'family time' and 'brotherly love' nonsense by now.

He approaches his door carefully, but there are no signs of forced entry. He pulls out his magnifying glass to assess the keyhole, but there is not even a scratch to indicate his locks were picked. Since he's just left John at his own flat, that rules out three out of the four friends who own a key to his place – and it leaves Molly.

He swallows uneasily, because she isn't due back for two more days, and if she came back early – something must have happened.

He slams the door shut behind him and takes the stairs two at a time, throwing open the door to his flat. "Molly?" He calls, breathing just a tad heavier before.

It _is_ her. She's lit a fire and wrapped herself in one of the blankets near the couch, knees up to her chin, staring - absorbed in the flames.

She looks up to him, startled, and quickly sits up, feet to the floor and straightening her back. Her eyes are wide and searching, and he can't quite place the emotion on her face.

"Ah," he sighs, catching his breath fully and brushing the snow from his coat, never breaking eye contact. "Molly," he repeats in greeting.

"Why did you do it?" She asks quietly, her voice steady and expectant.

He freezes halfway through unwinding his scarf, but blinks and quickly continues through the motions of removing his outerwear. "Why did I do what?" He asks evenly, confused. He runs through the list of cases he's taken the past two months, but he cannot for the life of him think of doing anything Molly would disapprove of.

Well, anything she'd disapprove of enough to leave her family holiday gathering and confront him about.

"Why did you help my brother?"

His back is to her, hanging up his coat and scarf, and his chest immediately tightens, though he's not sure why.

Actually, he does.

He's a bit terrified, if he's being honest.

"Because you asked me to." He turns back to her and takes a few steps toward her - drinking her in, as she is taking all of him in. Shadows play on her face, the single lamp and fire giving the conversation a surreal feeling. He is filled with equal parts fear and longing, but he's not ready to confess yet – not if that's not what this is leading to.

"No," she corrects him patiently, and shifts so that she is leaning more fully toward him. "Why did you help him the _first_ time? Why did you find him and get him a job and…check in with him?" Her eyes and voice are serious, and he has the strongest urge to kiss her forehead.

He swallows, frozen to the floor, and he knows it's time. "Because…" he starts, but his voice is a bit too raspy for his liking.

She shifts, and he catches the grip of her hands on the blanket beside her, and the way the artery in her neck is fluttering nervously, and the way she is biting her cheek.

"Because I love you," he admits, and his voice is clearer, now.

She blinks at him for a moment, and then stands suddenly. She looks at his feet, at the fire, at the window – crossing her arms and exhaling abruptly. "You – what?" She asks, and her voice is barely a whisper.

"I love you. I helped your brother because I love you and I knew…I _thought_ it would make you happy."

She stares at him for a moment, not incredulous, but not - smiling and running to him, not acting like some heroine in a romantic film – not like he had – well, he can't say he'd _expected_ anything. But he'd _hoped._

"You – love me?"

He tries not to let his heart sink, and makes an effort to explain further, his words leaving him in a rush, before he can fully filter everything he's saying. "I love you. I – think – you're – beautiful. You're incredibly intelligent and use it in a way that helps others. You're professional in the face of – complete -" he pauses here, thinking that perhaps 'arseholes' is not the best word to use, in this situation – "idiots, and you're an excellent friend and sister – and godmother. You're forgiving and - kind, even when others don't deserve it. You're generous with your home and time. You-" he pauses again, gesturing through the air at her. "You are _yourself,_ delightfully so, no matter what anyone else says about your – your clothing or – jokes – or – career path."

Molly crosses her arms a bit more tightly and tilts her head at him at that, and he rubs a hand over his face, frustrated. "And you are – _here._ " He points to his head for a split second before running a hand through his hair, slightly embarrassed. His face feels hot. He swallows again, darting glances at her. "You are _always_ here. I – when I'm solving a case, or visiting Eurus, or experimenting – when I'm composing or – showering or – eating – I – you're just – _there._ Sometimes its _distracting-_ " he spits out – "-but – sometimes – a lot of the time – it's _not._ Its – welcome. _"_

He looks at her desperately, and her expression is guarded and sort of…wondering, and he concludes lamely – "You're always here. And the thing is…I like it." He swallows again. "I _want_ you here. I'd like you here…" he gestures to her again – "more."

It's like she's been holding her breath for the entirety of his speech, because she inhales deeply and suddenly, looking everywhere but at him. "You'd like me here – more?" She asks breathily. It's not quite a laugh, but it hints at disbelief, and he forces himself to stay where he is.

"Yes."

She looks up at him then, full in the eye. "You love me."

He returns her scrutinizing gaze as bravely as he can. "Yes."

"You're – _in_ love with me."

To his credit, he does not hesitate when he answers. "Yes."

She exhales in a breathy laugh again, and falls back onto the couch behind her. She stares down and fiddles with the cuff of her blouse for a moment before looking back up at him, but this time – her expression is gentle, and a half-smile pulls at the corner of her mouth. "And – you're – okay with it?"

He frowns, his confusion evident. "I – don't - want to change it," he replies, and he realizes that it's true. Even if she does not return his feelings – he would not want to change how he feels for her. It makes him… _better._ Fuller. More alive. "Even if I did, I doubt I could."

Her smile grows, just a little, and she nods at him – but her eyes are still searching and serious. "Sherlock," she says softly, and he blinks at her tone. "What do you want?"

His eyebrows draw together, perplexed. "What – do I-?" His expression suddenly clears, and he quickly tries to stifle the feeling that the floor is dropping out from beneath him. He crosses the room quickly, and sits tentatively on the edge of the couch beside her, careful not to invade her personal space.

"I don't want anything," he says, voice strained.

Molly's expression changes with his voice. "Nothing?"

He looks up at her, surprised at the slightly hurt tone in her voice. Her expression has become harder once again, as well. He attempts to give her a small smile, but it falls short. "I understand your feelings have changed," he says softly, and his throat feels thick, for some reason. "I don't – expect anything to change. Between us. But – you asked, and you deserve to know the truth. The tables have turned. Getting a – 'taste of my own medicine'." He gives her a half-smile that is sad, more than anything. The look passes after a moment, and he shakes the expression away, giving her instead an insincere smile that doesn't quite meet his eyes. "But again – I don't expect anything."

Understanding softens her features, and Molly sits back and takes him in, relaxing her grip on the blanket beside her. "No, no-" she shakes her head slightly, eyes never leaving his face. "Not – what do you _expect._ Sherlock – what do you _want?_ "

He blinks at her, chest constricting. "I – don't-"

"Best case scenario," she says, smiling at him strangely. "What do you _want_ to happen?"

He swallows again, and his Adam's apple bobs in the shadows of the dying fire. "I want…" he stares at her – the fall of her hair on her shoulder, the smooth skin of her neck and jawline, her questioning, penetrating expression. "I want – more. Time with you. Best case scenario – breakfast. Dinner. Meals. Coffee. Whatever - whatever you're feeling, that day."

That same strange smile is still pulling at the corner of her mouth, and he feels like it's tugging at his heart, as well.

"More – discussion. Of cases, my cases – your cases – interesting cases we read about – experiments. More experiments. Together. More – ridiculous games. Scrabble. Cluedo. More taking Rosie for – trips."

"I want – kisses. Sharing – beds. And couches. And – more." It's ridiculous to stumble over the words, the idea – but it's a bit embarrassing, putting it into words, and he feels his face and ears warm, all over again. He clears his throat. "Sex. I want to sleep with you," he clarifies. "Both literally and figuratively." He avoids looking at her face, but notices the faint blush now creeping up her neck, as well.

"I want – you. Just – _you._ "

He hazards a look at her face, then, and though her hands are twisting the blanket in her lap like mad – her face gives him hope for the first time in _ages._ She's looking at him with awe and a bit of hope as well – and the half-smile is quickly growing to a full one. Soft – but full.

She opens her mouth, but a surge of sudden bravery pushes him on to clarify, just a bit further.

A lopsided smile blooms on his face, and he takes her hand, running his thumb over her knuckles. "Our professional relationship would remain largely the same," he mumbles, looking up from her hand. "With a few minor changes."

She raises her eyebrows questioningly. "Oh?" She asks, and she looks as though she's bracing herself – perhaps for requests for round the clock lab access or unlimited body parts.

"Yes." He swallows again, and straightens, moving just a bit closer. "When you assist me with lab analysis for a case, I could do this -" he hesitates just a moment, before kissing her quickly, feather-light, on the cheek.

He blinks at her for a moment, reading her response. When she makes no protest, he continues. "And – when you provide me with samples for my own personal use, I could do this-" he kisses her on the other cheek.

"When you check through week-old files and paperwork to help Lestrade collect evidence because I was in too much of a hurry to solve the case to bother with such trivial things, I could do this-" he lifts her hand, still in his, to his lips, and kisses her knuckles gently.

"When you allow me access to the morgue, even though the body I require is not on _your_ particular list, I would gratefully do this-" he kisses her forehead, and then brushes his own forehead against hers, not fully retreating, as he had the last few times.

"And-" he concludes, "-when you provide the means for a breakthrough in a very interesting, very important case, I would very happily do this."

He brushes his lips over hers, a chaste kiss - and then pulls back slightly. Her breathing is shallow and her eyes are wide and dark, staring yet unseeing. He swallows the urge to pull her into his arms and gives her time to process what is obviously quite a shock for her.

After a moment, her eyes refocus and meet his, and her mouth closes and curves slightly upward. She reaches up to brush a stray curl away from his forehead, and then trails her fingers along his jawline and brushes her thumb against his cheek. Her other palm comes up to cradle his face, and she sighs.

"Careful, there," she says softly. "It sounds awfully like Mr.-Married-to-His-Work is looking for a long-term relationship." Her words are serious, but her mouth and eyes are smiling at him.

He laughs breathily, barely moving – afraid of losing her touch. "I may have been – and still am, in many ways – completely and utterly blind, when it comes to matters of the heart – but I am not so blind that I cannot see that this is it for me. _You_ are it, for me."

"What do you mean?" She blinks in surprise, brushing her thumb tenderly along his jawline again. Her eyes move from his to his lips and back again, and he blinks rapidly in response.

He looks down and smiles ruefully at his hands, now balled into nervous fists in his lap. "Taking into account my age, general demeanor and reputation, along with the effect my past may have on my lifespan – I seriously doubt, in my lifetime, I will ever find another woman who…would..." he swallows. "- who would be willing to _accept_ me, my lifestyle and career, my interests and hobbies – let alone one who _shares_ them. And I _know_ I will never find a woman in the world that would care for me enough to kill me. Fake my death," he clarifies as an afterthought. "And keep my secret for two years. I will never trust and care for another woman like I do, you." He puts it simply, but his heart is racing – still racing, at what her response will be.

He shrugs half-heartedly. "You are _it._ " He chances a glance at her face, and relaxes at what he sees, there.

"You're in love with me." She clarifies, once more – sliding her fingers deeper into his hair.

"Yes," he confirms patiently, suitably distracted by the feel of her fingers threaded through the curls at the nape of his neck.

"You _love_ me."

"Yes."

"Mmm." She pulls them closer together, then – pressing her lips to his in a kiss that is both searching and passionate.

It is more than he anticipated.

The overwhelming of his senses – it's just a _kiss_ – but her hands are in his hair and on his skin and she tastes like spearmint gum and her lips are chapped and she's warm and it's _glorious._

He responds in kind, deepening the kiss and pulling her onto his lap and wrapping his arms around her, trailing his thumb up her spine so that she shivers into him and it's all at once _too much_ and _not enough._

There is no Baker Street. There is no London. There is absolutely nothing else that exists in the world at that moment but Molly and the things her kiss is doing to him.

* * *

His kiss is both her death and resurrection.

He tastes like gingernuts and rum and is somehow both hard and soft, textured and smooth - Molly's pulse tilts up exponentially as he trails sparks of hope wherever he touches her, igniting the smoldering coals of love in her heart to a full-on blaze.

Her hands move carefully, wonderingly - stroking curls and broad, shuddering shoulders, and when he shifts, pulling her down and tucking her in between himself and the back cushions of the couch, she moves with him willingly.

His fingers brush through her hair, and his arm curls up and under her waist, pulling her flush with him, legs entwining with hers. She returns his embrace, moving her fingers from his hair to trail down his cheek and neck, shoulder and chest, his pulse erratic beneath her touch. He is taut, every muscle tense with nervous energy.

" _I love you_ ," he breathes, pressing kisses to the corner of her mouth, her jaw, her neck, her shoulder. " _I love you_ ," he whispers, and he pauses, trembling, his forehead pressed to hers, his eyes closed. _"Please - believe me."_

She realizes that she has not yet made clear how she feels, herself – and that he is overwhelmed, and he does not trust his own reading of her body language, right now.

" _I love you,"_ she whispers in a rush, pressing a hard, fierce kiss to the corner of his mouth. "I believe you - and I love you, Sherlock Holmes. I still love you."

His whole body relaxes against hers, and he shifts, so that she rests almost on top of him, her head comfortably resting on his shoulder, his shirt soft beneath her cheek. She hears him swallow, and feels his heart beat, strong and fast, beneath hers. They cling to each other in silence, eyes wide, breaths slowly becoming deep and even.

"How long have you been trying to – to show me, now?" She asks into the darkness, some time later.

She feels him smile awkwardly, his lips pressed to her hair. "Consciously? Since I realized – mmm. Shortly after our conversation. At John's." His voice is still weary with relief.

"Mmm," she murmurs in the back of her throat, emotion threatening to well up and steal her ability to speak. After a moment, she raises her head to peer at him in the dim light. "Is that what the coffee has been about?"

"Mmm," he hums noncommittally. "I owed you that at least, as a friend - no matter how I felt."

"And…the…dance? With your sister's song?"

"I…meant to tell you, that night. I regret my cowardice, now." He presses another kiss to her hair.

"Michael?"

"For you."

Molly smiles against his shoulder. "I liked my song," she says softly, after a pause.

He moves his arm to wrap around her waist more comfortably. "I'm glad."

The lay beside each other as the fire dies down and the radiator hums, content to just be – there, together. They both grow sleepy, and the lull between their responses to each other grows as long as the shadows in the room.

"And unconsciously?"

He makes a sound of confusion from somewhere deep in his throat.

"You said – you've been trying to show me consciously, since our conversation. Is there an unconsciously?"

He doesn't answer for a moment, and when he does, his voice is pensive. "I hardly know. I've only recently acknowledged that I have a heart. I'm still trying to figure out what it's been up to all these years."

He trails his hand along the arm she's thrown over his torso until he reaches her hand, and brings her fingers to his lips.

"Apparently, it's been in the kindest and most capable of hands."

She returns his tender smile, and presses another kiss to his lips – long and loving.

The clock chimes two o'clock in the morning, and she rests her head on his chest again. "Should I-?"

"Stay," he whispers, wrapping her fully in his arms again.

And so she does.

* * *

 **A/N: Thank you again for your support! I hope you enjoyed this update. One more to go, before we are done with our story!**


	11. What We Know Now

**A/N: Thank you so much for all of your thoughts, prayers, positive thoughts, and messages! My baby girl was born healthy and happy and delightfully wild on November 20th, and she is already growing into a little firecracker. Her big sister is amazing with her. I love them.**

 **Also, just a word of caution:**

 **There are a few discussions and descriptions of Sherlock and Molly's physical relationship in this chapter. There is absolutely nothing explicit, but things are alluded to. I feel that there is nothing in this chapter that has not already been similarly alluded to in Sherlock or shows rated similarly, and I did my best to keep everything very classy, but as I usually don't include much more than kissing in my stories, I wanted to give you a heads up.**

* * *

What We Know Now

 _"I love you. I –_ _ **love**_ _you."_

 _-Sherlock, "The Final Problem"_

* * *

The cabbie winces as the cheery tune plays again, the toddler in the back seat clapping her hands and screeching along.

"Sorry," John apologizes, doing his best to use the diaper bag to muffle the speakers on the overly-large, musical, colorful – did he mention larger-than-necessary? - specially-made periodic table of the elements that Rosie's godfather bequeathed her for Christmas.

It's been two days, and he's over it.

It doesn't turn _off_ , and there is _no volume control._

It also has the disturbing habit of suddenly springing to life in the middle of the night, or from across the room when no one is near it.

If he has to listen to a chirpy mechanical voice sing _one more time_ about ' _helium – he-he-he-helium – it's a gas! – up up and away with – helium – Atomic Number – 2_!' he is going to lose it.

And so it is being returned to one Sherlock Holmes, and _he_ can deal with the bloody thing.

He tips the cabbie an extra fiver - ( _of course_ he'd taken his car to the shop for some blasted recall on the passenger-side airbag over the holidays. He'd be _home_ , it'd be _lovely._ He didn't anticipate the Educational Monstrosity would be sitting under the tree come Christmas) – and struggles up the walk.

He lets himself in to Baker Street, since Mrs. Hudson still hasn't returned from her holiday trip (she's due late tonight), and attempts to make his way to Sherlock's door.

Rosie's nearly two, now, and she wants to go up the stairs herself. Which is fine by him, because it's difficult enough to carry the Periodic Table of Torture whilst also juggling a nappy bag, blankie, and all the other paraphernalia that accompanies young children and wintertime.

Rosie takes her sweet time, half-crawling, half-plodding up the stairs, John protectively staying just behind her, until they finally reach the door.

He knocks unceremoniously with his foot, and Rosie takes that as her cue to deliver a few open-handed slaps to the door as well, grinning up at her _da_.

He smiles down at her as the door opens to reveal a freshly-showered Molly, hair still hanging damp around her shoulders. He blinks in surprise as Rosie exclaims "Ahn Mah-ee!" and lifts her arms in expectation.

Molly's expression changes from sheepish surprise to easy delight so quickly John's not really sure if he saw correctly in the first place. Molly scoops up her goddaughter and gives her a hug. "Hello, Rosie! How lovely you look today! Did you climb up the stairs all by yourself?"

Rosie nods, a shy smile blooming on her face, her thumb in her mouth.

"Oh, how strong you're getting! What a big girl! Did you have a Happy Christmas?" She continues her conversation with the child and moves aside to allow John to enter.

John's expression has recovered somewhat as he steps inside and gently closes the door behind him. He still appears bewildered and a bit suspicious.

Sherlock is lounging on the couch, still in the clothes he left John's in the night before, scrolling through something on his mobile. His eyes dart to John, and a smirk creeps up his lips.

"So," John exhales, looking between a brightly chattering Molly and Rosie and the smile on Sherlock's face, which is attempting to appear smug but comes off as more - euphoric.

"Oh!" Molly says apologetically, still clutching an affectionate Rosie in her arms. "Sorry. Hello, John. Did you have a Happy Christmas, as well?"

He turns toward her, and her smile is as wide and delighted as it was when she waltzed into Baker Street a year ago to announce that her brother was back and sober.

Still, he's not taking any chances in deducing the situation incorrectly. "Um, yeah. It was – very good. Thanks. Except," he continues, bemused, staring at the toy in his hands, "I'm sorry to say I have to return this gift." He turns the periodic table toward Molly and looks up to give a pointed glare at Sherlock, just as his jostling causes the gift to spring to life once again.

Sherlock moves to a sitting position in one fluid motion and shakes his head, a full-blown grin on his face. He rests his elbows on his knees and props his chin in his hand. "Too much knowledge for you to handle?" He asks breezily. "Pity. Rosamund _does_ seem to favor Mary's side for intelligence and observation. Afraid she'd surpass you before she's out of diapers?"

"No," John begins warningly – and is interrupted by another burst of noise from the toy. He clears his throat and blinks again, setting it carefully atop the kitchen table and moving away slowly, lest he waken the beast again. "No," he repeats, holding Sherlock's gaze. "Too much bl – er – it requires too much _attention_. The thing goes off – all the time. Keeps me up more than Rosie, at night. In fact, it's almost as obnoxious as the person who gifted it." He raises his eyebrow in challenge, and does not fail to notice the obvious, silent exchange between the two other adults in the room.

"And you? How was _your_ holiday, Molly?" John asks pointedly. "I thought you weren't due home for another few days?" He can't help but smile, now, too – because she's looking shyly at Sherlock. She bites her lip in an attempt to keep her expression in control. Rosie, completely oblivious to what's going on in the room at the moment, tugs on Molly's hair in an attempt to 'braid' it, and Molly attempts, unsuccessfully, to blow a stray strand out of her eyes.

Sherlock rises and walks to Molly, stopping just behind her. "May I?" He asks, his hands hovering near the nape of her neck, having procured a hair elastic from _where_ , John hasn't a clue.

"Um – okay?" She blinks, an uncertain smile blooming on her face.

Long, gentle fingers pull Molly's hair out of Rosie's hands and back from her face, and he uses the hair tie to keep it that way, a smile showing more in the creases around his eyes than on his lips. He then retreats just enough to give John a very serious look. "Molly's brother has a very big mouth."

"Mmm," Molly corrects him, placing Rosie down to toddle toward her father. Molly turns, brushing her arm lightly against Sherlock's, and looks up at him, eyes wide and smiling. "In his defense, it was his girlfriend, Adri, who slipped up."

Sherlock discreetly, reassuringly brushes his knuckles against hers. "I've heard they're loads of trouble, girlfriends." He says innocently, darting a glance at the woman beside him.

She smirks up at him. "Not nearly as much trouble as boyfriends."

He looks down at her with barely-masked adoration.

John watches the exchange with a myriad of expressions playing across his face, settling, at last, on complete incredulity. He tilts his head in wonder and crosses his arms, bringing one hand up to rub thoughtfully across his chin. "So," he draws out after a moment. "Are you actually going to come out and tell me what's going on, or are you going to force me to draw my own conclusions?"

Sherlock snorts at that, breaking his gaze away from Molly's to give John a withering look of superiority. "Don't be _ridiculous_. You can't even manage to turn a simple _child's_ toy on and off."

John narrows his eyes at his friend. " _Listen-_ "

"Sherlock," Molly interrupts, trying not to laugh. "I _told_ you you should've gone with the traditional power switch. Like this, John," she says, taking pity on him. She takes a step toward the toy, and beginning with Helium, runs her finger down all of the Noble Gas buttons at once.

" _Bye-bye!"_ sings a cheery mechanical voice, and the toy falls silent.

"What?!" John exclaims, looking at her in disbelief. Cautiously, he tries out _Hydrogen._ Nothing. He presses _Lithium_. Nada. He runs his hand over the whole blasted thing, and it doesn't make a peep.

"Noble gases – non-reactive, turns it off." Molly explains sheepishly. "Press and hold Fluorine to wake it up." She moves her hand over the symbol, but John quickly waves her away.

"No, no!" He clears his throat. "That's – er – I'll do that later. Thanks. I've had enough of it for one…lifetime." He mumbles under his breath.

She returns to her place beside Sherlock and looks up at him probingly.

"Spoilsport," he mumbles, and lets out an exaggerated huff of air. "I could've gotten at least another two days out of him."

"Stop," she laughs, pushing lightly on his arm, and then inclines her head toward John, just a fraction – still questioning.

Sherlock sighs. "And to answer your question, and confirm your deduction…yes. We're – yes."

And John breaks into a huge grin. "That's – that's _wonderful._ It's – really great, yeah?" He pulls Molly into a quick hug and turns to Sherlock. "It's _about time._ "

"It's past time," Sherlock corrects. "And before you begin your lecture," he adds quietly – almost embarrassed, "I am aware that I don't _deserve_ her. But I am endeavoring to be all she deserves."

John blinks at him, surprised at the still-rare show of humility from his friend. "Actually, I wasn't-"

"Well," Molly interrupts. "I'd say you're doing just fine, for a boyfriend. Perfect record, so far."

Sherlock's brows draw together and the corner of his mouth twitches at 'boyfriend', and he notices the slight fall of her expression. "Sorry. Old aversions die hard."

"Oh," she nods. "Would you - prefer another term?" She raises her eyebrows in innocent challenge.

Sherlock gives her a curious look, and her nonchalant, rapid-fire continuation surprises both him and John. "Because there are _lots_ of options. Lover? Paramour? Suitor? Sweetheart? Significant other? Partner? Beloved? _Darling_? _"_ – she continues, batting her eyes and suppressing a smile, before continuing, dead-pan – "Escort? Companion? _Boo?_ "

"Boo! Boo!" Shrieks Rosie delightedly, covering her eyes with her hands. "Boo!" She shouts at Molly.

Sherlock cringes, but Molly squeezes his arm affectionately.

"It's alright," she reassures him, suppressing a laugh. "We're just – _together_ – and that's good enough for me."

Sherlock's eyes follow her as she turns to put the kettle on. "Stay for a cuppa, then, John?"

John startles out of his reverie, and nods. "Yeah. Yeah, thanks. I think we will."

* * *

Two hours later, after the surprise of Sherlock and Molly's newfound relationship has worn off and the conversation has turned to other, more typical fare, John gathers his daughter and their things and prepares to leave.

Rosie is ready in her boots and overcoat, waving good-bye to her godmother and godfather, when she spies her toy on the kitchen table. "Oh no!" She says clearly and seriously, waddling over to reach for it with both hands. "Oh no, Daddy. Oh no!"

"Er – you – really want to take it home, Rosie darling?" He asks, crouching down to her level. She doesn't even turn to look at him – just keeps reaching for her gift on the table and grunts as she stands on tiptoes to get it. John sighs heavily. "Right then. Home it goes." He tucks it under his arm, careful to avoid _Fluorine_ , and turns around just in time to see Sherlock Holmes press a kiss to Molly Hooper's forehead.

"Really? Couldn't even wait until we were out the door?" John asks, but he's grinning again.

Rosie, however, has a serious frown on her face as her 'Ahn Mah-ee' and 'Shalk' break apart. She looks between the two of them, her eyebrows drawn together in concentration.

She quickly waddles to the two of them, hands up again. "Me!" She insists. "Me! Me!"

"Is someone jealous?" Molly coos graciously, picking up the toddler to give her another good-bye hug. "Would you like a kiss too, Rosie darling?"

"Me!" She insists once again.

"Very well," Molly says, and gives her a light peck on the cheek. She moves to set her down, but Rosie clings to her neck. "No! Shalk! Me! Me!" She presses her cheek to Molly's and reaches out to her godfather.

Molly frowns, and Sherlock sighs. "All right then, Rosamund. But this is _not_ to set a precedent." He bends down and presses a light kiss to her chubby toddler cheek, as Molly sneaks one last peck in, herself.

Satisfied, Rosie allows herself to be set down and toddles back to her father. "Buh-bye!" She calls cheerfully. "Buh-bye!"

"Well then," John says teasingly (and not at _all_ desperately), shifting their gear so he can take her hand and help her carefully down the stairs. "If you fall asleep on the way home, Rosie, I'll give you fifty pounds."

"Fee-pouns!" Rosie calls over her shoulder in a sing-song voice. "Fee-pouns!"

Sherlock and Molly can hear her singing it all the way down to the front walk.

* * *

Molly moves to the large windows overlooking the street as soon as they hear the door shut, and leans against the sill, smiling to herself as she watches John load up the cab.

Sherlock walks over and stands beside her, hands clasped behind his back, more interested in watching her than his friend below.

She grimaces in self-reproach as John drops the blanket and Rosie leans out of the cab to 'help', nearly falling out herself, and John _just_ catches her. "We should've offered to help him." She darts a glance at Sherlock before refocusing on the scene below.

When father and daughter pull away, she turns to Sherlock. "What?" She asks, a small smile on her face at his intense expression.

"We should have," he agrees after a moment. He hesitates, and then asks – "Did I – do alright?"

She arches an eyebrow and crosses her arms over her chest. "Do what alright? The - telling John about us?"

He gives a slight nod. "I'm sorry," he begins –

\- but Molly shakes her head. "You don't have to be sorry. Sherlock, you – you're _fine._ "

He nods again, but looks uncertain.

"I mean it, Sherlock," she says, tentatively wrapping her arms around him and resting her head on his chest. His arms surround her in a loose embrace.

He sighs. "I'm – I did not anticipate – _that_. And it's a bit _exhausting._ "

She raises an eyebrow, and he quickly amends – "The - announcing. Not the – actual – _being_ with you."

"It's all right. I don't expect you to take out a billboard announcing our relationship."

"People do that?" He blinks, both intrigued and mildly horrified.

Molly laughs. "No! No. I mean, now that I think about it, I should text Michael and Adri, just to let them know I'm fine and that everything – everything's fine – more than fine, but with everyone else – we can just tell them as we see them. Or, if you prefer, text them. Let them figure it out for themselves? I don't know - I'm certainly not going to hide it, but I know it's – probably better not to - flaunt it, either. The – press, and-"

"Par for the course." He mumbles, dismissing her concern. "But - that's it?"

"That's it. No formal announcement in the paper." She giggles to herself again, and after a moment, adds – "You could always update your Facebook status." She pulls away to stare at him, obviously amused.

"My - what?"

She shakes her head. "You don't have a Facebook, do you?"

He shakes his head. "I have my blog –" he says slowly, but Molly laughs again.

It would make him uncomfortable, but she's smiling at him so beautifully - he gives her a nervous smile of his own. "Are you – what are you - ?" He asks uncertainly.

"I'm teasing you," She says seriously, and gives his hand a squeeze. "But I mean it – we don't need status updates or group texts, no formal announcements, no billboards, no blogs. I don't really care about that. I haven't had the best record with – um – blogs, public – relationships. Putting on a show. You're more experienced with managing that. I mean – oh! I just mean - " She laughs nervously, and pushes a strand of hair behind her ear again. "You're used to the press. I trust you to handle that, unless there's something specific-?"

He shakes his head, his mouth tugging up at one corner. "They'll catch on, and we'll confirm, and then avoid all other headlines as much as possible. There's bound to be some royal baby or engagement or celebrity knighting that will distract them soon enough."

Molly nods. "All I care about, really – is that our friends know. Just – telling our friends as we see them, or - maybe texting them. Avoid the awkward looks altogether, if that's - what you want."

He holds her at arm length, and just _looks_ for a moment. His expression is so serious that her smile falls away, leaving an expression of searching concern.

"I am not concerned with what _I_ want, Molly Hooper. I've spent my entire life concerning myself with what _I_ want, and aside from my recent accumulation of - _friends_ , I have very little to show for it. And I can't say I'd ever devote a single brain cell to what the general population thinks about our relationship, aside from being discrete enough to keep you safe. But," he continues seriously, "I care very much about how committed I appear to _you_. If you _truly_ desired me to take out a billboard, or acquire another facet of social media simply to denote our relationship status, or-" his eyes move to the ceiling, searching for something equally ridiculous – "hire a sky-writer-" they both smile, a little, at that – "I would. I am entirely relieved you don't go in for that sort of thing – but - _never_ doubt the place you hold in my life. You were, and are, and will be, _always_ – the one who matters most."

Her smile returns, but it is understanding and gentle – a little less like the sun, and a little more like the moon's reflection on water – "That's enough for me," she whispers. "That's more than enough."

"All right," he murmurs, and pulls her in for a kiss, content to leave everyone else out of their relationship, for now.

* * *

As it turns out, the holidays give the new couple a few days' time to adjust to their relationship before outing themselves to the rest of the world – and the rest of their friends.

She stays over the remaining two days of her vacation, and aside from the short and pleasant but unexpected visit from John, their time together is deliciously uninterrupted.

After dinner their first proper evening together, she tucks her feet beneath her on the couch and leans into him, using her mobile to give her family in Edinburgh a short confirmation that all was – very, very well, before checking her personal and work emails. He opens his laptop and scrolls through his own emails and cases, and after she sets her mobile down, he closes his laptop and takes her hand, gently turning it over in his.

He tilts his head and silently draws his fingers across her palm, tracing the lines across it. He strokes every fingertip, traces her nails, runs his fingers along her knuckles. He presses lightly on the pads of her palm and rubs his thumb across the back of her hand.

Molly is frozen, every nerve in her hand made alive with his gentle attention. A pleasantly tingling warmth radiates from the point of contact to her scalp and back down to her toes. She barely breathes, and she can't help but stare at him as he studies her.

His expression, for the most part, is neutral – he is methodic in his ministrations, as though he is cataloging every curve and line of her hand – but every now and then, his lips twitch upward into a small smile, and his eyes betray his amusement and affection.

When he is done, he lays her palm flat on top of his and threads his fingers through hers before bringing their hands, together, to rest on top of his knee.

He clears his throat as he takes in her wide-eyed, dreamy expression. His eyes move from her face to their now-joined hands. "This is – good?"

Molly breaks into a disbelieving smile. "Yes," she agrees softly. "Yes, it is."

And then they talk. For _hours._

It surprises both of them – but they do. It begins with reminiscing – Sherlock makes a comment about how he's always appreciated her _hands_ , at least, and then protests Molly's skeptical snort with his memory of the day he first noticed them. They talk in circles – a case of Sherlock's leads to a conversation on his study of American country music, which leads to the time Molly was forced to square dance when her parents took her to the States one holiday, which leads to the awful things Sherlock's parents have made _him_ endure recently. _(Musicals!)_. Which reminds Molly of her mum's favorite movie, and how the telly was broadcasting a Julie Andrews marathon the day of her mum's funeral, and how she just can't stomach any of them now – the older musicals. ( _Glee_ notwithstanding, of course.) Round and round it goes, for the next twenty-four hours – laughter and indignant arguments and gentle caresses and looks of surprise and adoration that lead to quiet moments. Sherlock listens to all of her memories with quiet attention, though all the personal anecdotes he chooses to share are more recent – from the last ten years or so. She doesn't pry, knowing he is still working through the accuracy of his childhood memories himself, and that he will share when he is ready. They then drift away into their own things – books, music, cases, emails, television, food - until one of them strikes up conversation again.

Late that evening, they hear Mrs. Hudson come in downstairs. She calls Sherlock's name once, letting him know she's home, and pauses a moment.

Molly looks to Sherlock, but he only smiles and presses a finger to her lips, shaking his head. "Tomorrow," he whispers.

She understands. They wait quietly for a moment, and hear Mrs. Hudson retire to her own flat.

It's a lovely little gift they've been given – this quiet day alone to fall into each other and get comfortable with both each other and the shape of their relationship.

* * *

The morning of her last vacation day, Molly rises and puts on some coffee before showering. When she's done dressing she opens the door to let the steam out and breathe a little easier, Sherlock is standing in the hall, arms crossed and an eyebrow raised.

"You've packed."

Molly finishes rubbing the last of her damp hair with the towel, and shakes it out before throwing it into the hamper.

"…and you've discarded your towel," he notes.

"Yes. Very observant of you," she comments wryly.

"Why are you leaving?" He asks seriously. "You don't work again until tomorrow morning."

Molly eyes him playfully. "Yes, I work _tomorrow_ – but I've been away for a week, I told Jim and Bethany that I'd pick Toby up from their flat today by noon, I've got laundry to do and work to review-" she explains patiently.

"Mmm," Sherlock grunts.

"I know," Molly laments with him. "Real life. How dare it get in the way of our fun?"

When he still doesn't crack a smile, she wraps her arms around him and breathes him in, and he reluctantly returns the embrace. "Well," he continues quickly, and gives her a quick kiss on the forehead, "if you must, you must. You're the best Bart's has." He removes himself from her arms and enters the bathroom himself, leaning on the counter and inspecting himself in the mirror, rubbing his stubble with one hand. He takes out his shaving supplies and begins filling the sink.

"And," he continues seriously, because he can tell that she's leaning on the doorframe, watching him – "if we're being honest, I've been away from the Yard long enough. No telling what chaos they've caused. It'll take me a week just to properly solve all their botched cases."

Molly laughs and turns to finish packing and make them breakfast – only to find that Sherlock's already prepared beans and toast and has them sitting on the warming plate on the stove.

* * *

For all their cavalier attitude toward leaving each other earlier in the morning, as eleven o'clock approaches – they both keep finding little things to push off good-bye for another _few_ minutes.

 _"Oh, did your brother respond? To your text?" (Sherlock – and he didn't really care, he just wanted to see her smile to herself again.)_

 _"How'd your visit go? With your sister, Christmas morning?" (Molly – she genuinely cared, though she was a little hesitant to ask.)_

And then she notes the time and pecks him on the lips, and takes her duffle and backpack, and strides purposefully out the door – only to turn around before the latch has even caught. She dumps her things unceremoniously beside the door and marches up to where Sherlock is leaning against the kitchen table, and puts her hands on her hips.

"I need a _proper_ good-bye kiss," she announces, and before she has time to take a breath, Sherlock has picked her up. In one smooth motion, he sets her so that she is perched on the table, and - framing her face with his hands, brushing a strand of hair away from her eyes with his thumb – he covers her mouth with his.

Her arms wrap around his neck, pulling him closer, and her legs wrap around his hips. He presses one hand flat against the table for support, the other arm snaking around her waist so that they are flush against each other.

They are so lost in their _good-bye_ that they fail to hear the sound of footsteps on the stairs, or the turn of the key in the lock (or, if Sherlock hears – he doesn't care.)

They _do_ hear a familiar voice exclaim " _Oh –_ my-", and the hurried _slam_ of the door to Sherlock's flat.

They spring away from each other, both staring at the now-closed door. Molly stifles a laugh with her hand and slides off the table, and Sherlock primly straightens his shirt, boyishly grinning, the tips of his ears flushed pink.

He glances sidelong at Molly, and mutters – "Not exactly a billboard, but it'll do."

She laughs openly at that, and then calls out to his landlady. "Mrs. Hudson? It's all right. You can come in."

"Is that _Molly_?" Martha Hudson's muffled voice comes through the door. "Molly _Hooper_?"

"Yes, it is," Sherlock confirms. "You can -"

"Are you both quite decent?" She asks shrewdly.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. " _Yes_ , Mrs. Hudson. Come in."

"Well, you never know, do you -" Mrs. Hudson cautiously opens the door and pokes her head in, surveying the flat before nodding appreciatively toward Molly. "I've had a few encounters on tabletops, myself."

"Oh. Did you – have a pleasant holiday, Mrs. Hudson?" Molly asks, before the silence becomes stiflingly awkward.

"Oh, yes, very. Though not as pleasant, I suspect, as yours." The landlady raises an eyebrow at Sherlock.

Sherlock has regained his footing, however, and is unperturbed. "It was."

"Well," Mrs. Hudson beams at the two of them. "Congratulations. I _was_ sort of expecting you'd get back with John, you know, since-"

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock interjects, exasperated.

But she winks at Molly, and Molly knows she's teasing him.

"- but I suppose you both really have moved on, haven't you? Oh, well, Molly's – you're really very lovely, Molly – you keep him on his toes, make him downright respectable, and – more importantly, of course – you make him happy. I know he looks forward to your visits. Didn't realize how _much_ – but - I'll be glad to have you round more. I'll leave you to it. _And_ ," she adds, as she grabs the handle of the door, "I'm so happy to hear you've got yourself a potential flatmate again, Sherlock." She looks conspiratorially at Molly. "It's all your problem, now, dear, and I wish you the best of luck with it. The _best_ of luck…" she mutters, glancing toward the fridge and shaking her head, and closes the door behind her.

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock shouts in protest.

"Talking about the flat itself, dear!" She shouts in return.

* * *

Sherlock and Molly are thrown back into the ebb and flow of London with more force than they expected.

They are eating together later that evening. (Sherlock arrived at her flat shortly after five, proclaiming that he thought she might need some food (he was correct) and groceries (also correct) and that she may not have time to get them before tomorrow because she preferred to pick up Toby and get her flat in order over shopping (correct, again).)

They are watching a poorly-made science-fiction drama about giant mosquitos, and both of them are gesturing with forks, alternately laughing and cringing at scientific fallacies and general plot holes around mouthfuls of spaghetti and meatballs courtesy of Angelo, when Molly's mobile rings.

She takes a sip of water before answering. "Hello?"

She motions for Sherlock to turn the volume down on the television, and he obliges, pretending not to listen to her side of the conversation – though they both know he is.

Molly stands and takes her plate to the kitchen, scraping the remnants of her food into the bin. Her side of the conversation is mostly a series of "Mmmhmms" and some variation of "that's not good". At one point, she grins to herself and says "sounds like he shouldn't have lost his head", and suppresses a laugh before swallowing and agreeing – "no, you - you're right, not really appropriate right now."

She sighs and listens for a few more minutes before agreeing to come into the morgue early – as in, _now_.

She hangs up and grimaces at Sherlock. "Wanna come see a headless corpse?"

He tilts his head. "What makes this one so interesting?"

"Well," she says slowly, "It appears that there never _was_ a head to begin with."

He raises an eyebrow. "Go on?"

"According to Bonnie, poor man looks like a Ken doll that lost his head. A child's toy – Barbie - never mind." She explains, then dismisses it as unimportant with a wave of her hand. "Anyway. Skin's grown up and over the neck cavity, no obvious wounds or signs of decapitation – body is otherwise unharmed. Like there was never a head there in the first place. Insides are intact. That's all I know at the moment - "

-But Sherlock's already put on his shoes.

* * *

The next seventy-two hours are a flurry of excitement as Sherlock and John work round the clock to solve the case that John eventually dubs "Frankenstein's Monster". Molly only sees the two of them for a few hours total, as they pop in to examine the body. Sherlock is completely absorbed in the case, though he smiles genuinely whenever he sees her, and at one point, winks flirtatiously as he leaves.

It makes her just a little bit ridiculously happy, and she uses the time available to her to catch up on her work and to study the fascinating body that showed up in a strangely still-functioning deep freezer during a routine demolition of an old factory in south London.

If it weren't so grotesque, it truly would be work of art. Over the course of the past few days, Molly and her colleagues have discovered that Frank (as they've come to call him, inaccurate literary analogies aside) has the most impressive skin graft Molly has ever seen – nearly perfect stitching, minimal scarring – covering his neck cavity. Organs are intact, showing signs of freezing but otherwise unharmed. Frank himself is a mystery. He doesn't match any missing person reports and no cadavers or bodies are missing from hospitals, either. It's a perfectly preserved body (minus the head), and a perfectly captivating mystery for all those involved investigating it.

The organs have been investigated and catalogued, and Molly has started investigating the surrounding tissue to see if any clues may be had, there. She is in the middle of testing the tissue in the lab for signs of stress and disease (which is difficult, considering that she has to take into account how long it's been frozen and the accompanying effect on the flesh) when Sherlock arrives, John, Lestrade, and Donovan in tow.

"Any new developments?" He asks, removing his coat and whisking a sample from a petri dish out of its pocket. He rolls up his sleeves, and quickly spreads some of the sample onto a slide and places it beneath the microscope.

She greets the people accompanying him for the third time since the case has started and gives him a short summary of what she's ruled out, and he nods distractedly as he focuses on the sample in front of him. "Right. I could have told you cause of death wasn't asphyxiation or hypothermia. Did I not tell you that?" He asks sharply, but his tone is not condescending. If anything, he is almost apologetic.

"No, you didn't," Molly replies evenly. "But I had to run the tests anyway. Paperwork. Proof. Courts tend to require that, these days. You could say they're - dead serious about it, even."

He snorts in response, but his mouth twitches at the corner. "Take a look?" He moves back just enough to allow her access to the microscope, and she peers in, curiously.

"Dried blood? Signs it's been frozen. Slightly anemic. You think it matches Frank – er, the victims?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes at the corpse's nickname. "If that's even what he is."

"You think he's a cadaver, then?"

"Mmm, nope. But not a murder victim, either."

"Ah. More a victim of circumstance?"

"In a way." His voice trails off as she refocuses, makes a small sound of discovery, and motions for him to look again.

"Upper left quadrant, about 11:00."

He takes a quick look, and nods. "Exactly. Test it for me, please?"

"Of course."

"Thank you."

* * *

Sherlock and Molly continue like this for the next five minutes or so, talking back and forth, responses rapid-fire and at times sharp, challenging each other's train of thought and observations, confirming or discarding potential evidence and hypotheses. Sherlock, however, concedes exactly two points to her with nary a snide remark, and seems to have no scruples about invading her personal space to get a closer look at the evidence.

Lestrade and Donovan watch with increasing interest and incredulity at the exchange between the two scientists in the lab. Sherlock has treated her with the utmost respect since Sherrinford – but this is _different._ At one point, Sherlock places his hand on the small of Molly's back as they switch places at the microscope, Donovan turns to Lestrade, skepticism written on her face.

"Is it – is it me-" she whispers, inclining her head toward Sherlock and Molly –

"No – no. Definitely not just you," Greg mutters back. "John?" he asks, and nods toward the both of them.

John is leaning against the wall just inside the door, using his phone to flip through real estate listings near the factory the body was found in, looking for 'a brownstone building, no more than two stories, with a basement, and rhododendrons in the landscaping nearby', per Sherlock. "Hmm?" He asks absent-mindedly, and looks up as Sherlock and Molly exchange a _look_ over decomposing pancreatic tissue, that could be considered either pointed or playful – possibly both.

"Mmm." He makes a noncommittal shrug and raises his eyebrows innocently at the Yarders beside him.

Donovan stares John down to no avail, and after a moment, she turns her attention back to Sherlock and Molly. He returns his attention to his mobile.

Sherlock's grinning and thanking her over his shoulder (for the _third time_ ), and she smiles in response before returning immediately to her work - and then he's brushing past them all to leave.

John clears his throat meaningfully, and Sherlock pauses, palm still flat against the door, brows drawn in irritation.

" _What_?"

"Forget something, then?" John asks, clearly sliding his eyes toward Molly. She's already started preparing her samples for testing.

Sherlock frowns at him, as John looks pointedly at Lestrade and Donovan, still standing behind the detective, then back at Molly, and then raises his eyebrow in question.

Sherlock narrows his eyes at his blogger, tilting his head in an attempt to discern what he's talking about.

John stares right back at him, expression deadpan. If he could draw arrows with a glance, they would all be pointing, flashing neon, at Molly.

After a moment, Sherlock's eyes widen in understanding and concern. "Ah. Yes." Once again, he sweeps dramatically past the officers beside him.

He strides purposefully back to Molly, and she turns toward him expectantly. "Wha-" she begins to ask, but the determined and yet surprisingly uncertain look on his face causes the question to die on her lips. She blinks up at him. He swallows, hesitating for a moment, and she smiles nervously at him.

She looks behind him, and John has his arms crossed, expression struggling to remain neutral with a slightly furrowed brow. Lestrade and Donovan, however, have almost visibly leaned forward in expectation.

She sighs in understanding, her mouth pulling in at one corner, and focuses back on Sherlock. "It's okay-" she whispers, soft enough that only he can hear.

"No," he replies, just as softly. "It's not. I'm sorry I didn't tell them th-"

"We were standing around a headless corpse, we were _all_ a bit distracted-"

"-well, I'm less distracted _now_." He sniffs, straightening his cuffs.

She smiles up at him, shaking her head affectionately. "Almost solved it, then?"

He raises his eyebrows, shrugging minutely – eyes crinkling in appreciation. "Close," he confirms. He sighs and brings his hands up to cradle her face, tracing her cheek with his thumb. "I don't deserve you," he mutters.

She opens her mouth to protest that train of thought, but he presses his lips to hers in a sweet and delicate kiss that still somehow leaves her a little breathless.

"Thank you, Molly Hooper," he hums against her cheek, and then pulls away. He gives her a knowing smirk, and turns with a flourish to face their audience. "Case should be solved by tomorrow afternoon, at the latest. Dinner tomorrow?" He asks over his shoulder.

She nods in affirmation, pressing her lips together to keep herself from laughing.

John shakes his head at them, grinning. Lestrade looks outright stunned, and Donovan is still appraising the situation, eyes narrowed at the two of them. John follows Sherlock out the door without hesitation, but the two officers seem frozen in place for the time being.

Seconds later, Sherlock pops his head back in the lab door. "Game is _on_ , Lestrade, let's go."

Greg shakes himself out of his shock, his mouth pulled up at the corner, still disbelieving. "You – you -"

"- yes, your eyes have not deceived you – thought I made it obvious enough, questions can wait – I've got a dinner date tomorrow I _cannot_ miss," Sherlock interrupts impatiently, flashing a quick grin at the DI.

Greg blinks and snaps his mouth shut. "Right then," he says, nodding his acceptance and approval. "Good, Molly - " he takes a breath and nods toward her, his eyes softening with affection, and she beams in response. "That's – it's – congratulations."

Donovan takes a breath and shakes her head, following her DI and his two companions to the elevator. She pauses at the door, and turns back to address Molly.

"Doctor Hooper?"

"Mmm?"

"Well done, then."

Molly makes a small sound of thanks, and turns back to her work.

"And Doctor Hooper?"

"Yes?"

Sally Donovan lifts her chin in solidarity, a sideways smile on her lips. "If he mucks this up, there's a whole lot of us who'll - look the other way if he disappears, yeah?"

Molly raises her eyebrows, flushing slightly. "Oh – um. We'll be fine, thanks."

Donovan studies the floor for moment, and then nods, sincere – "I hope you're right, then - really" – and leaves the doctor to her work. Molly knows, however, that it was the officer's way of wishing her the best.

* * *

The four colleagues ride in silence in the lift. Donovan keeps opening her mouth as though to say something smart, but decides against it.

Greg, for his part, is staring intently at the button panel, and Sherlock swallows.

"Greg?" He asks, and the DI frowns, nodding to himself.

Sherlock darts a glance to John, silently asking – _what's wrong with him, then?_

John has no answer, however, and shrugs in response, looking a bit concerned himself.

The doors _ping_ open, and Donovan exits, John following soon after. Sherlock steps forward to leave, but Greg holds his arm out, against the other man's chest. "Sherlock," he says quietly, as serious as Sherlock has ever heard him.

"You know I consider you a great man," he says quickly, and Sherlock freezes, unequipped to deal with his friend's opinion of him and his new relationship without the other half of it present to steady him. "And I know, now, that you are also a good one," Lestrade continues. He gives Sherlock a sidelong, serious glance and a sharp nod. "Molly is a good woman. She is _exceptional_. Make sure you are _exceptional_ to her, yeah?"

He drops his arm and exits the lift.

Sherlock is stalled, processing for so long that he has to jut his hand out to keep the doors from closing on him.

* * *

"I am her boyfriend."

"I am her _boyfriend_ ," Sherlock repeats, muttering to himself. "I am her – boy- friend. _I_ am her boyfriend. I _am_ her boyfriend. I am _her_ boyfriend. I am her – _boyfriend._ Boyfriend. Boy- _friend?_ _Boy-_ friend. Boy-"

"Sherlock?" Molly asks, concerned, setting the bags of take-away on the kitchen table.

He blinks, noticing her there for the first time. "Molly," he says evenly. He adjusts his suit coat and stands, walking briskly to her and greeting her with a peck on the forehead before rummaging through the containers of lentils, rice, and shwarma. " _Two_ baba ghanoush?" He asks, raising an eyebrow at her.

"You always eat mine," she protests. "Now you have your own."

He sighs and begins spooning food onto a plate, and when he turns, he nearly runs into her. Molly's arms are crossed in front of her chest and she's regarding him particularly suspiciously.

"What?" He asks petulantly. "I left some for you."

She rolls her eyes. "What was that about, then?"

He frowns for a moment. "Ah! You heard - "

She nods.

He shifts for a moment, expression unreadable but obviously working something out. "You are – exceptional, Molly Hooper," he begins, and she can't help the smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

"Go on," she encourages after a moment.

He sighs. "As much as I enjoyed shocking our colleagues with the revelation of our relationship by bestowing lavish expressions of affection upon you, you deserve to have a – partner, who can, at minimum, introduce himself to acquaintances and co-workers as your – boyfriend -" He frowns, obviously still unsatisfied with the way the word came out of his mouth - "without grimacing at or choking on the word."

Molly presses her lips together in amusement. "And this is-"

He sighs again, scowling. "Exposure therapy."

* * *

"Dr. Rowan, Sherlock Holmes." Molly nods from her new colleague to the tall man in the dark coat. After losing Jeremiah Schmidt as a potential intern-to-hire to the pathology department, Dr. Emily Rowan, who'd already been employed at a morgue in Liverpool for several years, was hired instead. "He'll say he's got the run of the place, and he'll act like it too - but he does _not._ " Molly smiles cheekily at Sherlock, and he rolls his eyes and pulls a face at her, but it isn't vindictive. "He _does_ have full clearance in the lab, but he's only allowed in the morgue under staff supervision, and any cadaver parts he requests need to be cleared by Mike Stamford or myself."

"Ah," the middle-aged blonde woman nods, lips pressed together in concern. "Is he-"

"Consulting detective for Scotland Yard," he supplies. When she nods again and offers her hand tentatively, he shakes it.

She swallows uncertainly and tilts her head, studying him. He returns the gesture – but whatever he sees in her, it doesn't seem to be worth mentioning.

"My reputation precedes me," he drawls, amused, but somehow – not unkind. He does not wait for a response, however, and instead, turns to Molly. "I may not see you until tomorrow. The formerly _insanely_ boring insurance fraud case has taken a decent turn, and John and I have a few leads that may take all night to pursue. Enjoy your night out with Meena, I'll need the test results for the missing dogs case in the morning."

"Crumpets or just coffee?" She asks in stride, and Dr. Rowan does not have time to hide the look of confused disbelief that passes across her face at their exchange.

"It's all right-" Molly quickly reassures her – "you'll never be expected to bring him breakfast -"

"-I'm her boyfriend," Sherlock interjects smoothly, and then – his expression changes, just for a moment – to one of pleased surprise.

He turns to Molly expectantly, and she's beaming at him.

Dr. Rowan blinks, but seems to take the news in stride. "You're – together?"

"Yes," Molly confirms as Sherlock takes his leave. "Yes, we are."

Dr. Rowan nods. "Right. Sherlock Holmes. Consulting detective, full clearance in the lab, guard the bodies with my life, and feeding him is your responsibility."

Molly grins at her. "Oh, I think you'll get on here just fine."

* * *

 _She can't stop focusing on the smudge, there on the floor._

 _A small mark from – perhaps a drop of sauce, or a spider, squashed?_

 _She keeps trying to clean it, because a vague sense of impending doom has descended on her – she_ _ **must**_ _clean it. She_ _ **must**_ _._

 _Counter-clockwise – one, two, three – all the way up to ten._

 _Clockwise – one, two, three – all the way up to ten._

 _But it won't come out._

 _'Out, damned spot,' she thinks to herself, over and over._

 _She giggles, just a little, because it's fitting, isn't it?_

 _She does have a lot of blood on her hands._

 _She should wash them._

 _The cycle continues – again and again._

 _And she can't seem to stop herself._

* * *

Several weeks pass, and in that time frame, both Sherlock and Molly work out a rhythm to their relationship that suits them both perfectly.

Some changes are barely noticeable. Molly continues to work at Bart's, and finds a new friend in Emily Rowan. Sherlock continues to bring Molly coffee, continues to hold doors and hail cabs, and continues to clean up after himself much more frequently (though not always consistently) in the lab. But he is _closer_ , now – physically and emotionally - and he makes good on his promise to repay her thoughtfulness in the lab and morgue with tasteful kisses and softly-spoken thank-yous.

Molly continues to provide spare parts and equipment for Sherlock to experiment with, though she joins him in those experiments much more frequently, now. Mrs. Hudson is disappointed to find that an unholy number of human appendages still find their way to the bottom drawer of the fridge. There are more meals, more games, more moments of comfortable silence and friendly arguments.

Sherlock still gets irritable when presented with a lamentable lack of interesting cases, and he still has the ability to cut people down with a long glance and a verbal lashing with his sharp tongue – but he does his best to reserve that particular skill for guilty parties, only.

And then there are changes that may not _appear_ monumental to an outsider, but – all the same – they _are._

Molly discovers that Sherlock is endearingly content with the simplest physical acts in their relationship.

He kisses her, of course. Well and thoroughly.

But he seems to enjoy all points of contact with her - rubbing the sleeve of her blouse between his thumb and forefinger while brushing a slow farewell kiss to her cheek, brushing his arm against hers while beside her in the lab, sliding next to her in a booth while out to eat with John and Rosie and keeping his leg pressed against hers.

And this casual _touching_ is only the tip of the iceberg. He seems to enjoy when she rests her legs over his on the couch. He claims that resting his head in her lap is conducive to his thought processes, and she loves to stroke his hair – running her fingers through his curls. She finds a small red birthmark beneath them, just behind his left ear, and she traces it affectionately - and from somewhere deep inside his mind palace, he relaxes into her.

Sometimes, she leans into him, resting her head on his shoulder, and he absent-mindedly wraps an arm around her, pressing a kiss to her hair, before returning to whatever it was he was doing – or before turning his full attention toward her.

She loves the way he threads his fingers through hers when they are alone at home – at either home – _their_ homes – and is content to just _be,_ together. She adores the way his eyes flicker closed when she traces his jawline with her fingertips and presses a kiss to his collarbone.

And then – during those singular moments where time turns in on itself and seconds and minutes and hours bleed together and become impossible to tell apart - his passion for her is both the heat of the desert sun and the cool rain that relieves it. And if – if a good old-fashioned _snogging_ does this to her – their (mostly) fully-clothed bodies pressed together against walls, sofas, floors – she wonders briefly what on _earth_ sex will be like.

He apologizes, once, after pulling away, suddenly – his forehead pressed to hers – and he can't seem to explain, coherently, what is going on in his head –

"It's-" he swears, under his breath – "I'm sorry, I-" he swallows and rolls to his side, one arm under her head, rubbing a strand of her hair between his thumb and forefinger. "It's – good – _more_ than good – _blinding_ \- but it's – so _much_ , all at - once, and I don't think – I can't – yet. I – _want -_ "

She smiles slowly at him, and rests her hand on his collarbone, gently pressing her thumb to his fluttering artery. Her voice is low. "I'm not in a rush, Sherlock. It's – overwhelming, sometimes, for me too."

He pulls her close and kisses her, and she is content.

They spend more nights together than apart, and slowly – the evidence of that makes itself apparent in both of their flats. Sherlock's clothes and a dressing gown reappear in her bedroom; a toothbrush and razor in the bathroom, his preferred brand of tea in the kitchen - and a reorganized guest bedroom where he can pin clues and maps and string to his heart's content and leave piles of papers and books, without worry of repercussions from Molly – all take up residence in hers. Her clothes, pajamas, a spare pair of slippers tucked on her side of his bed, her shampoo and lotion in the bathroom, well-stocked cabinets and shelves in the fridge in the kitchen, a handful of novels and an extra chair in the sitting room – all make themselves quite comfortable at Baker Street.

And thus, seven weeks into their relationship, Molly is sitting on the couch at Baker Street. Her feet are propped up and Sherlock is lying on the couch beside her, his head in her lap. She absent-mindedly strokes his hair as she focuses on the book she is reading – a predictable but nevertheless captivating post-apocalyptic zombie horror novel. She has _The Great British Baking Show_ on in the background, and Sherlock is scrolling through news feeds on his mobile.

After a few moments, he frowns. It takes him a moment to pinpoint what exactly feels _off_ – and notices the pleasantly stimulating feeling of her fingers through his hair has stopped.

He sighs, tilting his head backward to look up at her. "Molly," he drones patiently.

She doesn't seem to notice. In fact, she withdraws her hand completely and rubs her thumb against her bottom lip, eyes darting across the page she's reading.

"Molly," he tries again.

"Shhh," she shushes him, waving him away with her hand before she turns the page.

Sherlock gives up, equal parts amused and irritated - and instead rolls to the side, reaching the remote to turn off the television.

Molly frowns. "I was watching that," she says, half-protesting, turning the page again.

He snorts. "I _seriously_ question -"

"Jane and Candice botched their Yorkshire puddings, Benjamina had the best pancakes, and I'm betting it's between Tom and Val to go home, but if they do well on their showstoppers -"

Sherlock shrugs, rolling his eyes. "I stand corrected." He frowns for a moment, peering up at her, and she stares at him from over her book, attempting to maintain a straight face.

"Fine," she admits, after a moment, breaking into a sheepish grin. "It's a re-run. I've seen this one before. But I like having something cheery on in the background when I'm reading something frightening!"

Sherlock snorts. "Zombies aren't-"

Molly rolls her eyes. "I _know_. But that doesn't mean it's still not a _little_ bit-"

A confident knock sounds on the door a split second before Mycroft lets himself in.

"-scary," she finishes, as Mycroft greets his brother from the door. Molly places a bookmark to hold her page and closes her book.

"Mycroft," she greets him, surprised.

"Molly," he nods in greeting, after a slight pause. Sherlock sighs dramatically and sits up, maintaining eye contact with his brother.

They stare each other down for such an uncomfortably long time that Molly considers opening her book again, if only to _appear_ as though she's unconcerned about the whole thing.

"I suppose congratulations are in order." Mycroft sighs, breaking the silence. "Well done, brother. However, Doctor Hooper-" he turns to her, addressing her formally, and she feels Sherlock bristle slightly – "I must offer _you_ my deepest sympathies, as you have chosen a rather unfortunate family to align yourself with."

He says it with such solemn gravity that she thinks for a moment he may actually be chastising her, but the very small smile he graces her with at the end makes her believe it may very well be a joke. Despite her interactions with him throughout the years, and throughout Operation Lazarus, he is still something of an enigma to her.

"Oh, well -" she clears her throat, and continues, wide-eyed, casting a sharp smile between the two men in an effort to get them to _play nice_ – "I think I can handle myself, thanks. After dating a criminal mastermind like Jim and being engaged to a man who thought 'meat dagger' was a brilliant way to murder someone, I think Sherlock's a very happy medium, don't you?" She smiles and a short laugh escapes, bright and slightly nervous.

Sherlock stifles a burst of laughter that abruptly turns into a cough, and Mycroft's smile becomes a touch wider, though she's not sure if it's actually more genuine. "Well then, I suppose I should congratulate you on your exemplary qualifications. Welcome to the family," he says primly – and yet, almost kindly - straightening his cuffs before taking a seat on the edge of John's chair.

"Um – thanks…?" she says, darting a look to Sherlock, who rolls his eyes.

"He's being melodramatic, but surely you've picked up on the fact that he's always been – if not _fond_ , then at least _agreeable_ toward you. Somewhere in that supposedly empty ribcage of his, the Hallelujah chorus is playing, imagining all the _scrummy_ little goodies he'll be privy to more often, now. He's just rubbing it in that _I_ don't deserve _you_."

Molly frowns. "That's not-" _true,_ she thinks, before Mycroft interrupts.

"I apologize for interrupting the 'honeymoon' period," Mycroft sighs, "but unfortunately, our sister is sick."

Molly's expression fades, and a different sort of nervousness pricks in her chest. She shifts to stand, but Sherlock places a hand preventatively on her thigh. He is about to tell her to stay, if she very well pleases, but Mycroft, surprisingly, beats him to it.

"Actually," he says softly, "I could use your opinion as well as Sherlock's, as Eurus's problem seems to be as much medical as it is mental. I was hoping for Doctor Watson, but you are qualified as well."

" _Qualified,"_ Sherlock snorts. "Of _course_ she's"-

"-I think he meant it as a compliment, Sherlock," Molly interrupts quietly. "Tea?" She asks Mycroft.

He blinks at her for a moment before nodding, and shortly after the three of them sit down to discuss Eurus's current condition.

* * *

The official diagnosis, made by Sherrinford staff and confirmed as sound by both Molly and John, is a complicated mix of several disorders due to mental and emotional trauma, onset by an autoimmune response to a simple strep infection.

Treatment is easy enough – antibiotics, which are quickly (though not easily) administered, and a recommended cognitive behavior therapy that the Holmes' flat out refuse, knowing that it would not end well.

Eurus recovers quickly enough, but afterward – she is subdued.

Quiet.

And once again – unresponsive.

* * *

 _She hadn't meant to do it._

 _She wasn't in her right mind, and she knows that. She knew it as it was happening, as a matter of fact, but she couldn't control herself._

 _She's never…_ _ **not**_ _been in control before. Not like that._

 _And truth be told, she's terrified of it happening again._

 _Because this time – no one died. The nurse had his arm broken, sure, but he'd recover quickly. It wasn't a bad break. A few others received minor scratches._

 _Even if someone had died, she wouldn't feel all that terrible about it. They're just staff, after all._

 _But the thing is – next time, it might not be staff she hurts._

 _She's not_ _ **guilty**_ _. She's_ _ **afraid**_ _._

 _The evidence is before her._

 _Her treasured violin – her one mode of communication with her family – her Sherlock – had lain broken in a heap before her._

 _While they would not allow her to keep the pieces (reasonable, considering she could make a variety of weapons from the remains) – she did manage to hide one small, smooth tuning peg from them, and if they've noticed – they've let her keep it. It becomes a worry stone of sorts – she turns it over and over in her fingers – a physical reminder of how easily that fragile, beautiful thing was broken._

 _She wraps her arms around her legs and rests her chin on her knees. Her nostrils flare, and she's made up her mind._

 _They said the chances of it happening again were very small, but – there's still that chance._

 _You can't prevent all illness._

 _And next time, it might be worse._

 _She won't risk destroying the one person who chose her._

 _And so she clings to what feels like the last thread of goodness in her, and decides that her relationship with her brother is over._

* * *

The trouble with Eurus is – to be concise – everything. It seems the more Sherlock attempts to visit her – the more he tries to convince her to play with him, even _listen_ to him play – is met with stiffness and distance and, in this latest, heart-dropping case – his sister angrily banging on the glass dividing them, and clearly gesturing for him to leave.

He cancels more than one 'date' with Molly in an attempt to salvage what communication he'd had with his sister, before. His conversations with Molly are focused on Eurus, on music, on communication. They do what they can to keep the fear at bay, but it's there – fear that this setback may be dangerous, fear that Sherlock may lose his sister, and fear of what Eurus may be capable of if she decides to 'play' with Sherlock again.

But after this glass-banging incident, he and Mycroft agree that it's better to drop back to twice monthly visits for the time being.

Maybe time is what she needs.

And so, feeling defeated and guilty and frustrated, he makes his way to Molly's.

* * *

He opens the door to her flat, and the warm smell of baking washes over him. He removes his shoes and closes the door behind him.

He takes in the wrapped gift on the table near the door, pink paper and white curled ribbon, and notes the tag –

 _To: Rosie_

 _With Love,_

 _Aunt Molly and Uncle Sherlock_

Rosie's birthday.

He'd forgotten.

Not her actual birthday, of course – but that her party is tomorrow, and that typically, small children receive presents on their birthday that are not of the periodic table variety – even if it does sing.

He sighs, feelings of guilt and frustration at failing his god-daughter in this regard playing tug-of-war with feelings of appreciation for Molly, and he turns to the sound of metal on plastic as Molly drops a knife into a small, nearly empty bowl.

Molly is in the kitchen, hands smeared with various colors of icing – Rosie loves her Peppa Pig, and Molly's made a decent go of making her a Peppa cake for her second birthday. "Hey. Almost done. I'm glad I decided to make it today. Not sure I would've finished in time for her party, tomorrow. Might've been a Pinterest fail, otherwise – but I'm really happy with how it turned out, today!" She smiles up at him, using her shoulder to brush a strand of hair out of her face and leaving a smudge of flour on her cheek in the process.

He brushes it off with his thumb, a tired smile on his face. "I don't deserve you."

Her smile falters on her face, and he frowns, concerned. "What? What is it?"

She breaks eye contact and her half-smile quickly slides into a frown. "I wish you wouldn't say that."

"Say what?"

She takes a breath and meets his gaze. "That you don't deserve me."

His mouth twists into a bemused expression. "But I-"

" _Yes_ , you do. You seem to have – this _idea_ in your head that I'm – somehow _better_ than you. I'm not. You deserve me just as much as I deserve you. One of us isn't _better_ than the other. Stop putting me on a pedestal." She's very serious about this, and frustration seeps into her tone.

He steps back, a concerned frown settling on his brow. "I'm – sorry."

She sighs. "It's – I know you don't mean to. But – I get the feeling that you're substituting 'I don't deserve you' for 'I love you', and - Sherlock - " she runs her hands over her cardigan sleeves and then lifts them, annoyed that she'd forgotten about the icing, and that now there's residue left on them. "-that's a dangerous exchange to make. Because one day – even though I don't _want_ to – even though I don't _plan_ on it – one day, I'm going to hurt you." She peers up at him.

He opens his mouth in protest, but she cuts him off.

"I _am._ It's – it happens. And if you keep me up on this pedestal – the fall is going to be that much worse. People hurt each other, Sherlock, and I need you to stop thinking that I'm – perfect. And not the – _perfect_ like – 'oh, she has - _cute_ flaws – she makes awful jokes and is sometimes socially awkward, but she _always_ does and says the right thing' – but," she sighs, frowning at the nearly-finished cake on the counter before her, and takes a few moments to collect her thoughts.

"You want me to – look for your flaws?" Sherlock asks slowly. He stands very still, reading her body language, listening intently, more confused than he's ever been in his life.

"No. No," she huffs, looking to the ceiling for the words she needs. "I need you to – to know that I'm _human_ , Sherlock. That I make mistakes, and that I'm going to make them with you. I need you to – not _expect it_ , really – but to just know it's – it's possible, and it's probable, and _I_ need to know – that when it happens – you won't be – I won't let you down, completely. That you'll forgive me. Let me be human, too, Sherlock."

"I _know_ you're human, and I would forgive you anything," he says stubbornly, and she frowns at him.

"I'm _serious_ , Sherlock."

They stare each other down across the counter, until Sherlock sighs in defeat.

"Fine," he says shortly. "You're human, you've just as many flaws as I have, and I'll stop saying I don't deserve you, no matter how true I believe it to be."

Her lips twitch just a bit at that. "I mean," she says slowly, "you can still tell me how much you adore me. How wonderful I am. Just – not that you don't deserve me. Because you _do._ Please."

"Oh. Well. In that case," he says, rolling his eyes and moving around the counter to stand beside her – "Molly Hooper. You are incredibly selfless and talented. Your Pepper cake-"

"-Peppa-" she corrects, her face serious but her eyes laughing –

" _Peppa_ cake will delight and enthrall our goddaughter, and I'm sure the gift you bought her will, too. I-" he swallows, and his eyes soften as his voice lowers an octave, almost whispering now. "I am forever grateful that you are in our lives, and more specifically – in mine." He leans forward and brushes his lips across hers. Her eyes flutter closed and he deepens the kiss, slowly savoring it as she steps closer to him.

"I like you -" he murmurs against her lips, pressing another kiss to the corner of her mouth, and pulling away slightly. She rests her head against his chest, wrapping her arms around him –

"And I love you." He presses another kiss to her temple, pulling her close, and rests his cheek on her head. "And I'm glad the feeling is mutual."

She sighs against him and he can feel her smiling.

"Is _that_ an acceptable way to express myself?" He asks saucily, pulling away suddenly and raising an eyebrow in challenge.

"Hmm. It'll do," she responds with equal sass. "It'll do."

* * *

"You sure you're fine, then?" John asks, allowing the overnight bag he'd packed for Rosie to drop from his shoulder.

"I think I can handle it," Sherlock says drily, as he picks up his goddaughter. She's already lifted her arms up, one hand wet with saliva from her habit of sucking on her thumb. "Molly gets off at ten for 'lunch'. I only need to make it…four hours?" He looks at the clock above the mantle. Rosie rests her head on his shoulder and immediately puts her thumb back in her mouth.

John nods, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah. Yeah, I know. You're good. Thank you, for doing this for me. Hank and Nina were still doing nights when I signed up for this course, but with their daughters graduating, they've cut back -"

"John," Sherlock interrupts. "We've been over this. Watching Rosamund once a week is not an inconvenience, nor a chore. We will be _fine._ Sandwich acceptable for dinner?"

John scrutinizes his friend for moment and nods. "That's all she'll eat these days, anyways. I've got a fruit and veg pouch in there for her too, see if you can get her to eat most of it."

"All right. We'll eat some veg, if we must, huh?" Sherlock addresses the little girl in his arms. She smiles slightly around her fingers in response. "Same bedtime routine?"

John nods. "Peppa DVD is in the bag – just _one_ episode, mind you - followed by nappy change, pajamas, brush teeth, and – she's moved on from _Goodnight, Moon._ Now it's – _The Going to Bed Book._ "

Sherlock nods. "Got it. Say good-bye, Rosamund."

"Buh-bye, Daddy. Buh-bye," she says, taking her fingers out of her mouth to wave.

John steps up and nuzzles his daughter, kissing her on the cheek. "Buy-bye, love. Daddy will see you tomorrow morning after breakfast, yeah?" He squeezes Sherlock's shoulder. "Thanks again. Now's your turn to be the life saver." He gives his friend a sideways smile.

After her Daddy leaves, Sherlock sets her down and she looks up at him questioningly.

"Dinner?" He sighs, placing his hands on his hips. She thinks for a moment, and nods in approval.

Sherlock pulls a kitchen chair to the counter and allows her to 'help' spread the butter on the bread and place the cheese on, for both of their sandwiches. He toasts them lightly on both sides, and cuts Rosie's into triangles. He does manage to get her to eat two-thirds of the pouch, and when they're done, he pulls the chair up to the sink. Rosie splashes in the bubbles as he does the dishes, and gets a rag of her own to 'wipe' down the chairs they were sitting in. (She's not quite tall enough, yet, to reach the table.)

When they are done, there's still an hour to kill before bedtime, and so Sherlock takes down the box of 'treasures' on the mantle that Rosie carefully goes through every time she comes over. There's an old pocket watch that survived the blast at Baker Street but no longer functions, several dried and pressed flowers and leaves that Rosie had brought in herself, preserved in plastic cling wrap – the thoroughly cleaned skull of a field mouse, and an old earring, left by one of Sherlock's clients and never claimed.

He watches her carefully, though she's past the stage of putting everything in her mouth, and smiles as she quietly, studiously inspects each and every item in the box. She shares her treasures, handing him each thing to inspect as well as she finishes with it. He makes small sounds of interest and places them back in the box.

When they are done with their treasures, Sherlock returns the box to the mantle and asks – "Dance, or 'Do You Know'?"

Rosie lifts her arms to him. "Do know?" She asks expectantly. "Do know?"

He lifts her into his lap, and she settles comfortably in the crook of his arm, thumb returning to her mouth once again. He pulls up Google images on his phone, and begins the tradition he started with her when he stayed at John's flat those several weeks Baker Street was being repaired.

"Do you know," he begins, showing her a photo of a large reddish-orange flower with five petals, each bigger than the child herself - "That the largest flower on Earth is the _rafflesia arnoldii_ , and it smells so terrible that it is also known as the 'corpse flower'?"

He shows her pictures of flowers, spider webs, blood cells, snowflakes, raindrops, baby animals – accompanied with appropriate facts, and she sits, enthralled, for another twenty minutes.

She stifles a yawn after a photograph of the Milky Way, and he shifts her so that she sits facing him, balanced on his knees.

"I think," he says kindly, "that it is almost time for Peppa Pig."

"Peppa!" She smiles, nodding in agreement. "Peppa time!" She sings sleepily.

He washes her face and hands and places the DVD in, sitting on the floor behind her as he gently combs through her tangled curls. When it is over, he changes her nappy and puts her pajamas on, and then begins the ordeal of brushing her teeth.

Once that is over (and he washes her face, again) and they read her _Going to Bed Book,_ he walks her up the stairs to John's old room, places her in the travel cot, turns the nightlight on and the lamp off, and presses a kiss to her forehead. "Good night, Rosamund," he says softly, ready to turn to leave –

-and then she sniffles, and he peers down at her, the star-shaped nightlight in the room illuminating her frown and worried, teary eyes.

"Where Daddy?" She asks, and he pulls the desk chair over to her cot and sits beside her, placing his hand on her back, patting her gently.

"Daddy is at work. He'll be back in the morning," he says quietly.

She nods in understanding, and sniffs again. She's used to sleeping at Hank and Nina's, and she's used to Sherlock or Molly putting her to bed at her house without John, but she hasn't stayed at Baker Street without her father, before.

Sherlock stares at her brave, sad face for a moment, and then asks – "Would you like me to stay, until you fall asleep?"

She hesitates for a moment, and then nods, turning to her side, her hands gripping her blanket and lovie close to her cheek.

"All right," Sherlock nods. He sits quietly beside her for a few minutes, hand still protectively patting her back, but she keeps sniffling every now and then.

"Rosamund," he says, "Do you know-" he falters, but she shifts slightly to look at him, and he plows forward. "Do you know – you are – very much like your father. You have his eyes. Your Daddy is passionate, and kind, and has a very strong sense of justice. He also makes me laugh - and so do you."

She settles back into the blanket, the rustling of fabric and a sigh demonstrating that she is content with this new addition to her bedtime routine.

"And – do you know, that you are very much like your mother?" His hand stills on her back, and he swallows. "She had hair very much like yours, and I imagine that when she was young – hers, too, was most likely curly. She – she was very brave, and very – selfless, and – observant. She had a way of understanding that sometimes what I _mean_ is the opposite of what I _say_ , though I'm getting better at that, now – saying what I mean. And she was charming. She had a way of knowing just what to say to alleviate tension in the room, to smooth over my many faux pas – to call me out without starting an argument, to get everyone to laugh and move on. I liked her very much, Rosamund."

Her breathing becomes more even, and she is no longer sniffling, but he continues, under the spell of a sleepy toddler in a dim room –

"-And, do you know, Rosamund, that perhaps the trait you share with your parents that I favor the most is this: You, all three of you, came into my life at _precisely_ the right time – at a time when I was at a crossroads and needed a push in the right direction, first John – your father - then Mary, your mother – and then – you. I was world-weary, lost, and tired, and each of you – in your own right – were guiding stars, bright and beckoning and _interesting_ – full of light and life. And though you display agreeable traits from both parents, you are also so delightfully yourself – that – I think, sometimes – _Rosie_ – that you are – _miraculous._ "

He gently removes his hand from her back, and when she moves slightly, he peers over the edge of the cot to confirm that she sleeps. Her mouth is open and her breathing deep and regular. The curls he combed through so carefully earlier are now tangled, a swirl of spun gold against the mattress of the cot.

And he is struck, very suddenly – it is quite nearly a physical blow – at how trusting and innocent she is. She is so _full_ , of promise and potential.

Something both very old and very new stirs in his chest, and he stands, imparting one last secret to Rosamund Mary Watson before he leaves her to her slumber.

"And do you know, Rosamund," he whispers, voice thick - "I see you, now, and – sometimes -" He blinks and falters – stumbling over the words, because he cannot seem to put words to this feeling that has risen – fierce and frightening, from somewhere deep inside his being.

A shadow of a figure, in his mind, in the place where possibilities are kept – of a promise, of potential – with hair curly or straight, raven or chestnut, eyes brown or blue or some shade in between –

"Sometimes, now, I see you - and I _wonder_." He swallows abruptly.

He leaves his secret to sleep with Rosie in that upstairs bedroom.

* * *

"How bad was it today, then?" Molly asks quietly as Sherlock slams the door to his flat and stalks over to his desk, where he lays his violin, rubbing his hands over the worn case.

Her voice is a salve on his frayed nerves, and some of the tension leaves him as she places a tentative hand on the swell of tense muscle beneath the shoulder of his suit jacket.

"Better than some, worse than most," he mutters. It's been over three months now, since Eurus got sick, and he knows that it may take years for him to regain what they had, before – but it doesn't make it any easier. His twice monthly visits don't seem to be doing any good, but if he attempts to visit more frequently, it sets her off in a way that is concerning and frightening.

He runs his hands through his hair and turns to Molly, who wraps her arms around him and buries her face in his chest. "I'm sorry," she mumbles.

He frowns, blinking, as he makes note of her shuddering breath, and the way she presses into him, as though trying to make herself disappear inside of him.

He swallows. "Bad day for you too."

Her exhale is shaky, and she's trembling, now – a release of pent-up nerves. "Second child this week," she sniffs. "Four years old – this time - accidental gun shot." Her voice breaks a little bit at the end, and he pulls her tighter, closing his eyes against the way it reminds the both of them of Mary, and Rosie.

"Come on, then," he says softly after a moment, pulling away. She follows him to the bedroom and he takes off his suit coat and belt, before joining her on the bed. She rolls over back into his arms, and he holds her, still, as she cries silently into his shoulder. She does so well, most of the time – everyone dies, it's a fact of life – but every once in a while, some association or likeness worms its way through her professional barricades and breaks her heart.

After her tears are spent, they lay side by side, staring up at Sherlock's ceiling, lost in their shared sorrow, her head tilted against his shoulder and her fingers entwined with his.

He stares blankly ahead, and after a time that feels like it could have equally been three minutes or three hours, he asks, "How much leave do you have left this year?"

She takes a cleansing breath, and her hand twitches in his. "Three weeks' vacation time? I think. Plus about a week of personal leave and – lots of sick days." Her voice is nasally, her nose still flushed and stuffy from her tears.

"Molly." He says suddenly. "Would you like to go on holiday?"

Molly smiles, disbelieving. "What?"

"Holiday. You know. Away, from here. From irresponsible gun owners and stubborn siblings."

She turns so that she is on her side, facing him. "Sherlock Holmes on holiday," she muses. "Interesting."

"So is that a yes?" He turns on his side as well, and places his free hand on her waist, thumb brushing delicately over the knit fabric of her jumper.

"That depends. How long, and where?" She brings the hand she's holding up between them and places a kiss to his fingers.

"I have a few ideas as to where. How long depends on you."

Her teeth worry at her lip, and she takes in his serious expression. "This isn't case related? We'd really just go on holiday?"

"No cases," he promises. "Just the two of us on holiday."

Her smile is radiant.

* * *

Prija is waiting for them when the airport taxi drops them off at the hotel. Molly's already been charmed by the ride – the warm, humid air filling her lungs and lifting her soul like a helium balloon - the bright and brilliant sun - and the cacophony of transportation a delight to her senses – tuk-tuks and pick-up trucks with benches fitted across the back, city buses and retrofitted vans, motorcycle taxis and pedicabs and people in bright and colorful clothing a stark contrast to the gray London they'd left behind.

And if the ride to the hotel charmed her, it is nothing compared to Prija and her affection for Sherlock, extended to Molly as well.

Sherlock says she claims to be eternally fifty – but she looks to be closer to eighty. She is a small woman with a wiry build and a careful, almost graceful way of moving, though it is obvious to Molly in the way she moves that she has experienced great physical pain in her life. She smiles with her teeth and speaks to Sherlock in rapid-fire Thai and to Molly in careful English, welcoming them and showing them to their suite.

It is breathtaking – a room simple and elegant, the spacious kitchen and living area overlooking the Phuket beach – sparkling endlessly over the horizon, with a balcony that allows the breeze to fill the rooms. The living area attaches to the bedroom – clean and bright and luxurious, the bath equally impressive – and Molly feels like she's just stepped into an episode on some sort of international travel show.

"Do you like it?" Sherlock asks, and she turns to him in delight.

"Do I _ever!_ " She laughs incredulously. "Sherlock-" she drops her bag onto the floor and turns in a slow circle, palms up – "This is – this is _amazing!_ "

His smile grows affectionately as she takes in everything around her, making her way to the balcony and laughing, once again, as she sees the beach before them. He, however, has eyes only for her. She returns to him after a moment, embracing him fully and kissing him gratefully.

* * *

He should've known better than to expect their holiday to be _relaxing._ A week of sightseeing, some reminiscing with Prija making him look good in front of Molly, some mild adventure – a rest from living the real thing for far too long, a sun-kissed Molly -

But no. He was _Sherlock Holmes,_ for goodness' sake.

Their _holiday_ had lasted a full twenty-nine hours, before descending into the chaos that normally accompanies him.

One dinner with Prija's family later, and it'd been revealed that her eight-year-old grandson Anuwat had unknowingly been an accomplice in a drug-smuggling ring.

Anuwat had remembered the detective from his visit a few years prior, dismantling a trafficking ring linked to Moriarty's web. He'd been so proud to give Sherlock a welcoming gift, bought with his own money –

Said gift shocked his parents and Prija, and he was promptly whisked to another room of the house and interrogated by them, Sherlock listening all the while, until Molly asked him what was wrong.

(He helps his mother water the plants in the lobby, and he'd been making money by exchanging pretty little boxes left in his plants for men that contained samples, communication and instructions, though the boy hadn't known that – not until Sherlock asked the boy to show him one and inspected it.)

 _"Yai!" He cried, hiding his face in shame. "I'm sorry, grandmother. I'm sorry!"_

He knew when Prija asked him for help that he could not refuse, and Molly did not want him to.

And now, here they are, in an aged petrol station in a derelict part of town outside of the tourist safe-zone of Phuket that had never fully recovered from the tsunami all those years ago, an enraged man pressing a gun expertly to Molly's temple.

* * *

He knows, as soon as they walk in, that something is _not right._

He looks around, and the inside of the store is – smaller than he expected. He runs some quick calculations and schematics in his head. As soon as they enter, the man behind the counter leaves to go into a back room, and seconds later, a disgruntled woman comes out, a sleepy child – a girl, no more than six years old, trailing behind her. What appears to be the mother greets him pleasantly enough, but her eyes never leave him as he and Molly move around the store. The girl settles on an old folding chair beside the counter and puts her thumb in her mouth, watching the two foreigners move around the place.

"Hmmm. Hot and Spicy Crab crisps. I think I'll try them. D'you want a bite?" Molly asks absently, and Sherlock realizes, belatedly, that all the deductions he'd made about the likelihood of the owner of this establishment being linked to the trafficking ring prior to entering the store had been inside his head.

"No thanks," he says softly, smiling at her. "Why don't you just stay here and find something else for me?"

She looks up quizzically, catching something off in his tone, and he steps closer to her for a moment, giving her a little kiss on the cheek for show. " _Stay here."_ He whispers through his false smile as he backs away from her. She nods slowly, wide-eyed, her own smile frozen on her face.

He walks around the small station, and as he makes his rounds, he realizes he was correct. Even taking into account the employee area behind the counter – the station is several cubic meters too small on the inside. There's a secret room in the station, behind the back row of snack foods and cold drinks, which means that this is more than just some lackey's stop on a drug dealer's journey – this is a _base of operations._

Something in his face changes, and the woman watching him says something sharp in a dialect he's not familiar with, and the man that disappeared minutes ago comes out with a pistol, low in his hand.

Sherlock freezes, deductions sparking off the man like jolts of electricity, and _everything_ – from the way he holds the gun to its age and make, to his clothes and the trim of his hair – tell him all Sherlock needs to know.

This man may not be _the boss_ , per se – but he is _important._ And it's not just drug trafficking they've stumbled upon.

Sherlock raises his hands, speaking to them both in slow, careful Thai, attempting to appear more clumsy with the language, a tourist –

" _No. Sorry please. No. What?"_

The man narrows his eyes at him, switching to the same dialect.

 _"Come here."_

Sherlock shrugs helplessly. " _What?"_

The man gestures, obviously motioning for Sherlock to come closer. " _Come here._ "

When Sherlock shakes his head no, the man roughly grabs the little girl off of the chair, placing the gun to her head. She cries out, and the woman beside her looks shocked. She shrieks something at the man in the unfamiliar dialect, and moves to take the girl out of his hands.

The man smacks her across the face, and she staggers backwards, holding her cheek. Her eyes are wide, and a bit frightened – but more than that, they are _angry._

She says something low and pointed at the man, and he narrows his eyes at her, his hand never wavering. They have a heated dialogue that lasts all of thirty seconds before he snarls and pushes the little girl away, grabbing the woman as his hostage instead.

 _"I said – Come. Here."_

The little girls cowers on the floor, hands covering her head and curled into a tight ball.

Meanwhile, Sherlock runs through scenarios in his head at lightening speed, the safety of Molly and the girl at the forefront of his mind, taking into account the balance of power between the man and the woman. He's just about got it, when -

" _Come here,"_ Molly whispers, holding her hand out into the aisle where the girl lies, using the same phrasing the man with the gun just used. She'd somehow managed to sneak up and down three aisles without anyone noticing. "It's okay," she switches to English, her voice soothing. " _Come here._ "

And the moment is forever branded into Sherlock's consciousness.

In the span of three heartbeats –

The little girl looks up slowly, a lock of dark hair falling across her face, her cheeks flushed.

The man and woman's eyes both slide to Molly, and the man's slide back to the woman he's got at gunpoint. He locks eyes with Sherlock, and his lips curve into a sneer.

He pushes the woman in front of him and lunges for Molly.

\- And time resumes its normal cadence. Sherlock leaps for her, almost in sync with the man with the gun, but the woman is in his way – stumbling, falling sideways in an attempt to avoid landing on the little girl.

And the man has her.

His arms wraps around Molly's shoulder and neck, his gun pressed to her temple.

" _Sherlock_ ," she gasps, but she is resolute – still, eyes wide, lips pressed into a trembling line, waiting for him to make a move.

He'd told Anderson once that he was thinking too loud, but the forensic specialist's thoughts are a whisper compared to the man that has Molly.

 _Foreigner – ransom – pretty –_ he turns his face, just slightly into her hair, and breathes deeply. _Very pretty._

Sherlock knows he will get nowhere with his innocent tourist act.

 _"Let her go,"_ he commands, breathing heavily, his hands raised. _"She knows nothing._ "

 _"Ah,"_ the man fires back, lip curled. " _But she knows_ _ **you**_ _, and that is enough."_

The man nods to the woman, who has gathered up the girl on the floor. Her thin arms wrap around the older woman's neck, and she buries her face in her shoulder. The woman carries her quickly into the back room.

And once again, in that span of thirty seconds, Sherlock runs through a hundred different scenarios in his head, and realizes that although there are two plans that would end up with a less than fifty percent chance of Molly sustaining a serious injury – that is not good enough.

He knows she will be taken, and he'll need to phone Mycroft first – then the police here, Prija and the rest of his contacts, all while doing his best to follow behind –

And he yearns with all his being that it will be enough, that nothing will happen to her, that he'll find her in time, and he thinks he may actually be praying -

A shot rings out as the dirty glass of the entryway shatters, and the man jerks forward, dropping his hold on Molly and loosening his hold on the gun to clutch his shoulder. Bright red blood blossoms from the wound there, and he curses.

Molly wastes no time in diving away from him, scrambling to Sherlock.

Sherlock blinks, taking a deep, sudden breath.

Molly has her arms around him and police and agents from the Thai government are pouring in, subduing the man in question and raiding the back room. There's an officer yelling and gesturing, and the sound of someone breaking something down further down the small hall, and then Hansa is there.

Hansa, who'd been tailing Sherlock while Sherlock was undercover in Thailand, who'd been looking into the sudden increase in drugs busts and the takedown of a major criminal gang, who'd almost caught up to Sherlock – _almost_ , but not quite.

She's caught up with him now, and she's talking a whole lot, but all Sherlock can hear is Molly.

"It's all right," she says, her voice as tremulous as her body. "I'm all right." She nods, as if convincing herself, and brushes off his shirt. "See? I knew it would be all right. I'm always all right, with you. Everything is all right."

* * *

He is stoic as he sits beside her in the patrol car on the way back to their hotel room, stiff and serious. Apparently, his half-prayer had been answered, because Hansa had been looking into this trafficking ring for two years, now, and her team had been setting up a perimeter when Sherlock and Molly entered the scene, delaying the professionals for about fifteen minutes. It is unbelievable. And yet, it is the truth. Molly Hooper was saved, not by Sherlock's wit or strength, but by pure coincidence.

He doesn't believe in coincidences.

And yet, having eliminated all other avenues of possibility – through observation, some of his own subtle interrogation as they were being questioned, and then – debriefed – the fact remains: He did not save Molly (though he did buy some time). She did not save herself (though she did act quickly when given an opportunity to get away). Hansa had been planning this bust for months. It was supposed to happen last week, but due to bureaucratic red tape, it had been pushed back by five days. They'd planned on an evening bust, the dark better cover for themselves, but the lead agent who'd have to sign off on all contraband had been invited to his niece's concert. She played the cello. He'd rather have it done sooner.

All of these seemingly innocuous coincidences, relayed with eager explanation by Hansa during their debriefing, led up to Molly's rescue.

And yet, it was _him_ she'd trusted to keep her safe. It was _him_ she'd trusted to rescue her. It was _him_ she'd looked to for strength and reassurance in the face of danger.

Danger they both had an equal share of getting her into.

Molly is quiet as well, and her thoughts turn from introspective to awareness of the man beside her. Her hand sits on his, but he makes no move to hold it. He stares straight ahead, jaw tense – and she realizes he is _angry_.

The car stops and Sherlock makes a short comment to the officer, before sliding out of the car. He doesn't hold the door for her, doesn't wait for her, and she has to rush to keep up with him.

By the time they reach their room, _she_ is hurt, and angry as well.

"Sherlock," she says sharply, frustrated that her eyes are already damp with tears. She closes and locks the door behind her, and crosses her arms in front of her. " _What_ was that?"

His shoulders tense, and he kicks off his shoes. "You didn't _listen_ ," he hisses. "I told you to _stay put._ "

Her mouth drops open a little, and then presses closed in wounded fury. " _That's_ what this is about? I didn't _listen_?"

"I knew the moment we walked in it wasn't just typical petty drug deals. I told you to stay where it was _safe_ , and you deliberately-"

"-what, ' _disobeyed'_ you?" Molly mocks angrily. "That girl-"

"Would have been _fine._ "

Molly scoffs.

"It's _true_. She was the niece of the smuggler. She's probably seen worse, unsavory as that may be. He was threatening her, and her mother, to stop _me,_ to gain leverage over _me,_ and then-"

"She was inconsolable, Sherlock!"

"Irrelevant!"

"Why are you shouting at me?!" They're both shouting now, and Molly is trying very hard not to cry.

He glowers at her, and lowers his voice, but he sounds so acidic that Molly thinks she prefers the shouting. "Because what you did was incredibly _stupid,_ and you don't seem to be able to comprehend that!"

She blinks rapidly and sets her jaw defiantly. "Oh, I comprehend just _fine._ You're allowed to put yourself in danger whenever you please, but the second I _apparently_ misjudge the importance of a little girl's safety, I-"

"It's not _about the little girl!_ " He growls, gesturing angrily with his hands.

"Oh, I forgot – it's about how I _didn't listen-"_

"He would have _taken_ you, Molly!" He explodes, shouting again. "It wasn't just a - petty theft ring, or a drug smuggler – that's all Anuwat was unknowingly involved with, yes – but he also dealt with _humans_ , Molly!"

She freezes at that, and blinks at him.

"You are an attractive middle-aged foreign woman, and one that was obviously much more valuable to me than his sister in law. He wasn't just using you as a hostage, Molly. He'd have either gotten a hefty ransom for you or sold you," he spits out bitterly. "And this isn't London. Even calling Mycroft – even with my contacts here, with Prija's help and influence – there is _no guarantee_ I'd have found you in time. Twenty-four hours, Molly – _twenty-four_ hours is all I'd have had before you were stuffed in the back of a cargo truck on your way to be someone's _slave_."

She closes her mouth and swallows, colour draining from her face.

Sherlock tugs at his hair and runs his fingers from his forehead down to his chin, his glare changing to an expression of fear and something else she can't quite place. "I can't…you…I'm not…" he falters, now, his fury subsiding into a more defeated anger. He presses his palms against the smooth counter-top. "I'm not - strong enough, to lose you, like that – like…like _that_." He swallows, and looks back up to her. "One day, your trust in me will overestimate my actual abilities, and I won't - solve it in time, and it will _break me._ "

He turns to her, face twisted with anger and revulsion, his voice sharp. "You have the power to _destroy_ me, Molly Hooper. Be a _little_ less careless with it."

Molly stands shocked, and Sherlock stalks out to the balcony, banging the sliding screen door behind him. She draws in a breath and gulps down air, taking a step back. Her back hits the door, and she slides down it until she sits, forehead on her knees, and her tears come.

* * *

A storm is coming.

It's still far enough out that the sky around Patong hasn't darkened yet, but the breeze from the ocean has picked up, and he can see the dark clouds in the distance.

He holds onto the guardrail of the balcony, squeezing until his knuckles turn white, and breathing deeply through his nose.

 _He'd almost lost her._

She might argue that he hadn't – it had all been over in a matter of minutes – but he _knew._ He _knew_ what could have happened, and he can't stop playing it over and over in his head – his serious instructions to her to stay put, the woman behind the counter yelling in fear and protest, the little girl crying, frozen in fear – Molly doing her best to coax the girl to come to her, to comfort her – the woman shoved and falling into the rack of snack foods – Molly, the barrel of a gun pressed to her temple, eyes wide with fear, but more than that - with a calm, pleading _trust_ –

He backs up against the siding and slides down until his sits, head in his hands.

He thanks God that the police showed up and saved her when they did, so that he could touch her, reaffirm that she was fine, she _would_ be fine.

 _She's not fine, now._

The thought nibbles at the edges of his racing mind, and guilt and sorrow rise like the bile in his throat. He'd _yelled_ at her. He'd made her cry. And the thing is – he feels guilty, because he doesn't feel all that badly about it, even though he thinks he should. But she _didn't listen._

And the scene replays, again – like a wild animal prodding a wound, he can't seem to leave it alone. Fear and anger and guilt and heart-break deafen him to the sound of the screen door opening, and it takes him a moment to realize that Molly has come to join him on the balcony.

He tenses, as he's really not ready to hash this out again, but she stares at him for a moment silently before sitting beside him.

She sniffs every now and then, and it softens his anger. After a few minutes, he hazards a glance at her. Her legs are extended in front of her, hands wringing a tissue in her lap, and her eyes are red and puffy. She stares straight ahead, squinting a bit. Her breathing is even, though, and _her_ anger, for the most part, seems to have abated.

They sit in silence, watching the surf become rougher as the storm continues to approach.

"I'm sorry," she whispers hoarsely after a moment.

He looks at her, brows drawn together.

She nods to herself. "I'm sorry," she repeats more clearly, and looks him in the eye. Apparently, what she sees there makes her tear up again, and she looks back down at her hands. She takes a deep breath and continues. "You were right. You implied, when we started, that I needed to do _exactly_ as you said to stay safe. I didn't. I should have – I should have trusted your judgment. You have – a lot more experience in the field than me, than I do. And I should have – I'm sorry," she whispers again.

He swallows, and stares at an ant making a path along the cement beside his leg. "One hundred and twenty-seven," he says softly, after a moment.

Her mouth turns, uncertain. "What?"

He sighs. "One hundred and twenty-seven. It's the number of cases in my lifetime I haven't been able to solve – the number of people I haven't been able to help, because they came to me too late or they couldn't remember the details I needed them to. Roughly half of those cases I was unable to solve led, directly or indirectly, to someone's pain or death. You don't read about that on John's blog, though, do you?" He asks dryly.

"That's not your fault," Molly says, quiet and sure.

His lips twitch ruefully. "Doesn't feel like it, sometimes."

"Today wasn't your fault, either."

He makes no reply, and they continue to sit in silence, until the sky above them darkens and raindrops begin their descent, bringing a new scent to the salty air.

"I think," Molly says tentatively – "I think it might be a good idea if I stick to helping you in the lab."

He grunts noncommittally.

She swallows noisily, and her voice shakes as she continues. "The day my mum died, I'd cut my hair-" she draws in a sharp breath, and swallows, again. "She hadn't wanted me to, but it wasn't – a fight, or anything. She just – preferred it longer. My friend took me. And I came home feeling so grown up, smelling like salon shampoo and so proud. And my dad was there, with Meghan and Michael, and they didn't even say anything. I just – I kept asking what was wrong, and Dad opened his arms and pulled me into his lap like I was a little girl and told me my hair looked good. And that he had some terrible, terrible news, and that Mum had died. Hit by a drunk driver. I didn't cry, not at first. All three of us – Meghan, Michael and I – we didn't cry. We just sat and stared. And the first hour was – we were all together. But then phones were ringing and Dad had to do – a lot of things. My Aunt Nan came to stay, but she mainly took care of the house and Dad. And after everything was over – she stayed, for a little bit. But she didn't know things. Mum always made our lunches. Even – even then. And I went to school and didn't know what to do because I forgot about lunch and didn't have money to pay. So I sat in the toilets that day. I sat in the toilets the whole week. I - I didn't want that girl to feel like – like that. Alone," she says, and her voice is small. "I'm sorry."

When Sherlock doesn't respond – breathing evenly and blinking, eyes on the horizon - fresh tears spring to life, and she wraps her arms around her knees. "I was – I was so frightened, Sherlock. Today. And I know you're still – frightened, too, and angry, but I-" she clears her throat noisily – "I _need_ you right now. _Please_ – let me need you. Let me-" her voice fades to a whisper.

And his mind finishes her sentence with the words she'd spoken months earlier – words she'd used to warn him that one day, she'd do something to hurt him, and she'd like to know she could count on him to forgive her, eventually, when she did.

 _Let me be human, too._

The dying remains of his anger and fear fall away, and remorse rises in its place. He'd made her _cry._ She'd made an understandable mistake, and she'd apologized and sat in agony beside him and he'd been -as John has said so many times - a _machine_ about it. He swears under his breath and in an instant, turns to her, drawing her to his chest. "Molly – Molly, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm – sorry," he murmurs. She shifts so that her legs rest over his, and she wraps her arms around him, silently sobbing into his shoulder. He sways instinctively, tightening his grip on her and resting his chin on her head. "I'm sorry," he repeats. "I'm sorry."

The warm rain gets heavier, blowing under the awning of the balcony and soaking them, but still they sit.

Thunder rumbles, and Sherlock squeezes her arm lightly. "Inside?" He asks softly into her ear, the sound of the rain making it difficult to hear anything else. She nods, and they disentangle themselves, returning to their rooms. He shuts the sliding glass door, and Molly shivers in the coolness of the air conditioning. Water pools around their feet, and without speaking, they divest themselves of their wet clothing. Sherlock takes it from her and walks to the bathroom, throwing the clothes in the tub for the time being, and returns with towels. They dry themselves off and both, now, return to the bathroom to hang the towels up. Molly shivers, and Sherlock turns down the duvet. Wordlessly, she climbs in, staring at him with wide eyes still covered in a sheen of tears, and he slips in beside her. She turns toward him, and they lay there, together, clinging to each other in the dark as the storm releases its fury outside.

* * *

He wakes the next morning, and Molly is not in bed with him.

She is talking to a woman in the hallway, murmuring repeated thanks in clumsy Thai, and he stands, pulling the sheet the rest of the way off the bed and wrapping it around himself, somehow managing to leave the duvet in place. He steps into the sitting area of the suite just as Molly shuts the door.

A fresh fruit basket and warm roti bread sits on the table, and Molly turns to him.

"Hey," she says softly.

"Hey," he says, looking between the food on the table, and Molly. She's run her hands through her hair to smooth it out, and is wearing the silk robe the hotel provides over the underthings she'd kept on the previous night. His throat is dry, and he swallows as he focuses on what she's saying.

"-I mean, he's said before, that he owed me some favours, you know – from your early days, with Lestrade, when I worked with you – ah – more than most, and especially after – after Operation Lazarus, and if there was anything I needed-"

"Wait," he interrupts, holding up a hand and looking up at her in disbelief. " _Mycroft_?"

She tugs at the bottom of the robe a bit, urging it further down toward her knees, biting her lip. "Um, yes. So – I cashed in on one of those favours. We don't have to go back to the station to – um – answer any more questions."

"You called Mycroft."

She stands in front of him, fiddling with the bowl of fruit on the table, and popping a piece of fresh mango in her mouth. "Yes." She's avoiding looking at him in the eye.

When he doesn't respond – _and it's not out of anger, or resentment toward his brother – no – it's – she –_

"It's just," she insists, "that after everything, _I'd_ rather not waste the rest of our holiday giving statements and being interrogated, and I thought, neither-"

She finally looks at him, and he is staring at her in open-mouthed wonder, his body shaking with amusement. "My brother owes you _favours_."

A smile creeps onto her face as well. "Well – yes. Two more, now, to be precise."

He laughs outright, and pulls her down into his lap in delight. "My _brother_ owes you _favours,_ " he repeats.

"It _is_ a nice thought, isn't it?" Her smile is one of a very agreeable secret.

She is beautiful.

She is _radiant._

She is brilliant and sunny and so full of softness and grace and apparent forgiveness from last night that it's a little – overwhelming.

His chest tightens and his face falls, suddenly, and he pulls her closer, tucking her neatly against his chest with her head beneath his chin, and he repeats himself, again.

He seems to do that a lot, with her.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I am sorry that I raised my voice yesterday. That I made you cry, and added to your distress. Please forgive me."

She pulls herself away from him, and there is some deep-seated, self-questioning shame in his face. It's a sight familiar to her, but this time – _this_ time, she can do something about it.

"Sherlock," she says softly. She twists so she sits comfortably sideways in his lap, and smooths his hair from his forehead, pressing light kisses to his hairline and his jaw. Her fingers trace gentle lines and circles to the sheet on his shoulders, and she presses a kiss there, as well. "I forgive you."

He presses his head to hers and closes his eyes, and he believes her.

"Please forgive me, too." She adds.

He pulls away for a moment, but doesn't go far.

"I'm sorry that I scared you, and – that I made it seem that – I wasn't – important to you. That I underestimated how much I mean to you."

And he startles a bit, because there it is. She has managed to pinpoint just why he reacted the way he did, yesterday, and he blinks.

"I forgive you," he breathes. And it's a bit of a marvel, he thinks, because already, he can see how this experience has made them stronger. How it's just – reaffirmed that he loves her. That they _work._

He tightens his grip on her hip where she sits across his lap, holding her close, and presses his forehead to hers, the fingers of his free hand grasping the silk of the robe on her thigh. Something changes, then – looks and breaths and words and touches carry more weight, now, then they did a moment ago – and they both feel it.

Molly barely breathes at his look – intense and gentle and questioning.

"Sherlock," she says quietly. "Would you like to go back to bed?"

"Are you still tired?" He asks, just as softly.

"No."

His eyes widen slightly in understanding, and he shifts her on his lap so that his arms slide under her legs, and he carefully stands, lifting her with him. A small sound of protest escapes her lips and she wraps her arms around his neck, but he levels a serious look at her. "Molly, let me. Please."

He carries her to the bed and she pushes the sheet away from his shoulders, allowing it to fall to the floor. He lays her carefully on the bed, one hand tangled in her hair, the other gently untying the silk belt of her robe.

They take their time, and permission is sought with hesitant touches and granted with soft kisses.

It is not what they expected – in all the possible ways to consummate their relationship, this is not how either of them planned it – but it _works,_ unforgettably so.

As they drink deeply of that ancient expression of love – kisses becoming more passionate, more urgent, more breathless – he realizes with resounding clarity that he is lost, forever, to this woman with dark eyes and the lightest, most radiant soul he has ever had the privilege of knowing.

* * *

One morning, one month after their trip to Thailand, Sherlock wakes up at Baker Street with Molly in his arms. She is snuggled into his chest, having just woken up, and he absentmindedly trails his fingers up and down her back, enjoying the feel of the worn cotton of her pajamas.

She shivers. "Stop that," she mumbles sleepily into his chest. "That tickles."

He rests his hand on her back instead, and makes the announcement he's been waiting to make since the day they got home from their holiday.

"I think I'd like to take a sex holiday." He says, his voice still low and thick with sleep.

Molly smiles against his skin, and pulls back a bit from him, narrowing her eyes at him groggily. "You – you do realize - a lot of people - don't actually go on holiday just to -,"

His lips tug up, just a bit, at the corners. "I know. I mean - one where we go away somewhere. And there's a holiday, as well as sex."

Her eyes crinkle at the corners as her smile widens. "Like the one to Patong?"

He frowns. "That one was also dangerous. I was thinking more holiday, less life endangerment."

"Like our two-day trip to Venice two weeks ago? That was _lovely_."

"Mmm," he grunts in disagreement. "I was thinking more sex and less history lesson, than that."

"Well," she says, propping herself up on her elbow. "What exactly _are_ you thinking, then?"

His lips quirk up, but he can't seem to meet her eyes, choosing instead to fiddle with the end of a strand of her hair. "I – I was thinking…" his voice trails off uncertainly, and though she's still smiling, it dampens a bit and her eyes darken with concern.

He notices, and shifts to look her in the eye. "I was thinking," he tries again, slowly – "about taking one like John and Mary did, to Maldives."

He lets that sink in for a moment.

Her eyes narrow in concentration and her mouth turns up at one corner, staring at a place just below the window behind him, attempting to decipher what exactly it is he's trying to get at, without mentioning it directly.

"Or," he adds, swallowing - "like Michael and – Addie? – took, to Ireland."

Molly's face immediately relaxes, and she rapidly wipes the rest of the sleep from her eyes before she turns her gaze to the man beside her, eyebrows raised in disbelief. "Do you – do you mean a _honeymoon?_ " She asks incredulously, a smile blooming on her face.

His eyes crinkle with relief. "Yes. Like that."

She grins at him, shaking her head just a little – still uncertain, not quite believing him. "You _do_ realize you can't go on a honeymoon without getting married, first."

"I know," he says quietly. His lips are turned up in the smallest of smiles, but his face is open and serious, studying her closely.

"Are you saying – you want to _marry_ me?" Molly's face has frozen into a look of open, pleased confusion.

"Only if you want to marry me," He says hesitantly, and his voice goes up at the end, making it a question.

She blinks and focuses on him, and her smile grows wider. "No fair answering my question with a question," she admonishes softly.

She's blushing, now, and it still does funny things to his insides.

"I want to," he says, and his voice is low – barely above a whisper, and his eyes darken as he presses closer to her, kissing her lightly.

He pulls away and cups her face in his hand, brushing his thumb tenderly against her jawline, then her lips, and it takes a moment for his gaze to move from them to her eyes. "Molly Hooper," he continues in that same low voice – "do you want to marry me?"

His thumb pauses over her lips, and he feels their soft, perfect pinkness press her answer into his skin.

"Yes," she answers, just as softly. "I want to marry you."

He grins at her, then, and turns over to rummage through his nightstand. He sits up on his side of the bed a moment later, and Molly quickly follows suit, curious.

He holds something in his hands, and opens them slowly, revealing a dark velvet box.

She looks at him in surprise, reaching for it. Her lips tug up at one corner, still disbelieving. "Is-"

"Open it!" He says, and he leans forward, barely containing his excitement. He's almost _bouncing_ on the bed.

She does, and gasps. " _Sherlock_ ," she breathes, and the ring sparkles in the morning sun filtering in through the curtains. "It's _beautiful._ "

"May I put it on?" He asks, voice low – and her breath catches in her throat.

"Of course."

He removes the ring from the box and slides it onto her finger – and it fits, perfectly.

"This – really, then?" She says, and she's blinking back tears. "You – this is all real, then?"

Sherlock tilts his head, and his expression is one of gentle concern. "Of course it's real, Molly. I didn't realize gumball machines gave out prizes this realistic."

"No-" she laughs softly, rubbing her eyes with her thumbs, sniffing. "No, silly! I mean – you – you really want to get married. That – this – we're really going to."

"Unless you prefer to simply be engaged for the rest of our lives, yes - I plan on carrying through with the promise to marry you. Preferably within the next year."

She smiles, holding her hand out before her, admiring the ring. "You really want this too?"

After watching her for a moment, Sherlock takes her hand in his, smoothing small circles on the back of her hand with his thumb. She looks up at him, and his expression is serious. "I did not ask out of obligation, or just to make you happy, if that's what you're worried about. I really _want this too._ "

Her smile grows and grows until she flings herself at him, nearly knocking him off the bed, and they're both laughing, kisses mingling with Molly's excited exclamations that _Rosie can be the flower girl!_ and _There better not be any attempted murders at our wedding_.

* * *

They are married in early autumn, when the sunflowers are in full bloom and the air is crisp and clean. Every detail is perfect, from the rich mocha bridesmaid dresses, the yellow bouquets, and Molly's simple, lace-adorned gown at the countryside chapel to the soft-lit floating candles and champagne in the crystal flutes at the reception hall.

They were very selective with their invitations, and as such, the party is a small one. Sherlock and Molly's immediate families, as well as John and Rosie, Mrs. Hudson, Greg and his girlfriend, Mike Stamford and his wife, and a handful of Molly's friends and colleagues were the only ones to make the cut.

The celebration is in full swing, and Sherlock has taken a break from dancing with his wife to walk onto the patio and breathe in the night air, while she handles the 'mingling'. He'd made his rounds with her when they'd first arrived, but socializing and small talk was still – and would always be – Molly's department.

As happy (Content? Delighted? Filled with immeasurable joy and pleasure?) as marrying Molly has made him, Sherlock is equally relieved that weddings are designed to occur only once in a lifetime.

He loosens his bow tie and undoes the first button on his shirt, leaning onto the stone balustrade lining the patio and looking out into the gardens. He would say that the evening had been a success – Rosamund had done marvelously as their flower girl, and Molly's nephew had been surprisingly good with her throughout the ceremony, holding her hand and guiding her back down the aisle at the appropriate time. Neither Sherlock nor Molly had misspoken during their vows. And while Molly teared up – especially during John's best man speech – there had, thankfully, been no crimes attempted that evening – murder or otherwise (though he considered the fact that leaving a speck of that cake to waste could certainly be considered a crime.)

Perhaps the only blight on an otherwise perfect evening was the fact that Eurus was as unresponsive as ever to his visits, and as such – had no part in their wedding. He had informed her of the impending nuptials halfway through his and Molly's engagement and had no doubt she could decipher the date from her observations, but her only response, beside a twitch of her lips, was to turn her back to him in her cell. Thankfully, there had been no other outbursts, and her anger after her illness seemed to have abated. Still – though the guards said that she would play her (new, courtesy of Mycroft) violin passionately and beautifully on her own, she refused to do anything but listen in silence when Sherlock visited her. Most of the time, she refused to even look at him.

But enough of Eurus. Tonight is about joy, and celebration, and –

"Needed a break, too, then, eh?" A familiar voice intrudes upon Sherlock's thoughts, and he gives a nod to Lestrade in welcome. The man joins him in leaning on the balustrade, suit jacket off and a glass of liquor in his hand. They stand in companionable silence, looking out over the moonlit shrubbery, still lovely before the coming winter.

"You know," Greg says slowly, after a moment – "if you'd invited me to your wedding two years ago, I'd've knocked your head off for leading Molly on for the sake of some stupid case, because that's what I'd've believed it was."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. "Pretty low opinion you have of Molly's discernment."

Greg nods, a short laugh escaping him. "You're right. I'd underestimated the balance in your relationship for – a long time. But then, this – everything – you've done - _well_ , Sherlock. And more than that – you've done _good._ I hope I'm not overstepping when I say – I'm right proud of you."

A smile flickers across Sherlock's face, and he inclines his head in thanks.

"Molly tells me you helped plan a good deal of this." He continues neutrally.

Sherlock straightens, stretching his neck to the left and right and giving his friend a grin. "Well, you know. Divide and conquer, isn't that what they say?"

"You'd have to, to pull all this off in less than four months."

Sherlock smiles to himself.

"You're a man of many talents. And a man of many secrets, too, apparently." Greg shakes his head. A short lull, and then – "Never took you for a spiritual man."

"Pardon?"

"Your vows. They were – more traditional than I expected. 'Before God' and all that. Was that for Molly, or…?"

Sherlock looks to the sky for a moment, where stars are just beginning to appear - a dusting of light on a pallet of blues and greys. He thinks of his sister, and his brother, and the roles they've played in his life. He thinks of Greg, and the paths the Detective Inspector has motivated him to take. He thinks of Stamford introducing him to Dr. John Watson, and of Mrs. Hudson – whose firm foundation has provided him a safe haven for so many years. He thinks of John, and Mary, and Rosamund – his guiding stars - and of Molly. Sherlock and Molly – the two of them were locked in a slow, distant orbit for so long, until the force that was Eurus caused their worlds to collide and implode, leaving something new and different and _better_ in their wake. He thinks of his desperate, pleading prayer in Thailand for Molly to _be_ _safe_ , and the swift and uncanny response.

"I've always said that there is no such thing as coincidence; that the universe is rarely so lazy." A half smile appears on his face, and he is contemplative. "Perhaps - I've come to accept the idea that it is not simply the _universe_ that is so animated in directing our lives. Perhaps a more creative – a more _intentional_ \- force is at play than simple matter moving through time and space."

Greg purses his lips and nods. "Right. Good - that." He claps Sherlock on the shoulder. "Ready to head back to the missus, then?" He inclines his head toward the hall behind them, where laughter and light and the sound of music make every effort to envelope the guests in warmth and levity.

Molly is standing by the nearest set of doors, and she's just thrown her head back to laugh at something a very cross-looking Rosie has stood on tip-toe to whisper to her. She quickly makes amends by bending down to look her in the eye, and smiles, imparting some sort of aunt-ly wisdom that appeases the child, who lifts her chin in triumph and stalks off. Molly rises slowly – her feet, even in low heels, must be killing her, right now – and she squares her shoulders, stretching them, just a bit, as she straightens. She looks out the glass latticework and meets Sherlock's gaze, and smiles.

"Always," Sherlock replies. "Always."

* * *

 **A/N: There it is! I apologize for the very long wait, but I think I had a pretty good excuse. Thank you for your patience.**

 **I also apologize because I feel like I was unable to give this final chapter the time and attention I have given previous ones, for obvious reasons. But - I figured, better to bite the bullet and post as not-quite-perfect than to wait around 18 years for the kids to grow up and give me time alone, lol. Please let me know of any glaring grammar errors. I'm sure I'll spot seven as soon as I publish this.**

 **I have to say thank you to my friend GoodShipSherlollipop, whose chats have really encouraged me to carve out some time for myself to get back into writing, and whose Journey story inspired the wedding scene and the little conversation with Greg at the end.**

 **You may have also noticed that I did not finish with "THE END". This is because I have a (much much shorter) epilogue to write, because this chapter was long enough as is.**

 **Please review if you have time!**


	12. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

* * *

One lone fluorescent bulb – the last of its kind in a room otherwise full of LEDs – flickers slightly, and he knows it won't be long before that one is gone, too.

The flickering is distracting, and he blinks, trying to ignore it. He almost misses the woman in charge – Mrs. Acton - hair pulled up neatly in a bun at the nape of her neck and wearing a freshly pressed skirt suit, frowning at him in concern as she speaks. It makes her look older than her fifty-odd years.

He's wearing a new shirt, and the collar is not _quite_ broken in yet.

He's not a fan.

He raises his eyebrows in question, and she clears her throat. "I said, thank you for coming in today, Mr. Holmes."

 _As if he had a choice._

She smiles politely at him and folds her hands primly over her knee as she sits on a stool at the edge of the room. "We'll begin whenever you're ready."

* * *

In another part of London, not so far off, John Watson takes a seat for his 2:00 therapy appointment.

Ella Thompson relaxes into her chair, her familiar pad of paper balanced on the knee of her crossed legs. "So. It's been-" she flips the notebook back a page – "four weeks?" She smiles at him, unassuming.

John shifts slightly in his seat. "Uh – yeah. Sorry 'bout that. Rosie caught the bug that's been going 'round school, and then we had that case, the one in Cornwall-" he looks up, just a bit guilty, but Ella's still smiling at him.

She shakes her head. "No need to apologize, John. It wasn't meant to be an accusation, just an observation. We can drop back to once a month, if that suits you better, now."

John hesitates for a moment, and Ella adds – "but it's entirely up to you."

When he's still gathering his thoughts, she continues. "How are you?"

John looks up, nodding distractedly. "Fine, fine thanks." He smirks to himself, and Ella tries again.

"Rosie feeling better now?"

"Oh – yeah. Yeah. Much better, thank you." There's a pause, and then, as though he's remembering his manners – "And you?"

Ella smiles at him. "I'm doing very well, John, thank you – but we're here to talk about you."

"Right. Right." John shakes his head.

After another slight pause, Ella prompts him again. "How are the dreams?"

* * *

Sherlock clears his throat and nods to the room full of faces. Some are eager, some skeptical, a handful _bored_ – all seats are full, and the rest of the room's occupants gather around the perimeter, waiting patiently on him to begin. He's resigned and ready as he'll ever be for this interrogation.

"What do you _do_ , Mr. Holmes?"

"I am a Consulting Detective."

"What does that mean?"

"I solve cases – from both private parties and Scotland Yard."

"But you're not a police officer?"

Sherlock snorts, resisting the urge to roll his eyes surprisingly well. "No."

"My father is a police officer."

"How – nice for you."

"He's a sergeant."

"Mmm."

"He says-"

But thankfully, Sherlock does not find out what that particular sergeant-father says, because he's interrupted by another line of questioning.

"Mr. Holmes, how many cases have you solved?"

* * *

John sighs, and for a moment, stares at the wall behind his therapist. He quickly refocuses, however, and sits forward slightly. "Good. Still good. Haven't had a – a bad one in months, now."

"That's great." She makes a note on her pad of paper, but the pen pauses, and she looks up at him, eyebrow slightly raised. "You _are_ still sleeping, right?"

"Oh – yeah. Yeah, of course. Lost a little bit this past week, but that wasn't – dreams. Sherlock," he continues, explaining as much with the expression on his face as with his words. "Sherlock worked us overtime in Cornwall in order to get us back by Thursday evening."

Ella nods. "Still burning both ends of the candle, then?"

John smiles fondly. "Only when he needs to. Molly had a conference in Glasgow over the weekend, we had to be home by Thursday."

"And you?"

He raises an eyebrow in question.

"Not burning yourself out, are you? How are you handling – parenthood?"

The _single_ is implied, and he straightens, and his expression is one of serious contemplation. This is when he starts talking more. After the first few minutes of their session - when the old habits of reticence and putting on displays of strength fall away, when the awkward back and forth of his early days with her is gone – this is when he starts talking.

And this is where she can see the most that he's changed.

* * *

Sherlock draws in a slow breath through his nostrils as he thinks. "I've lost count."

"But if you _had_ to guess-?"

"Seven hundred thirty-six."

There is no small reaction to this statement, and whispers spread throughout the room, until -

"Do you solve _murders_?"

"Yes."

"Bloody ones?"

"Murder does frequently involve blood, yes, but not always."

"What kind of murder doesn't involve blood?"

"Don't be _stupid_ , Daniel. There's no blood if you're _poisoned._ "

"I'm not _stupid,_ Nadia. Some poisons _do_ make you bleed. Out your nose or mouth and stuff. Right, Mr. Holmes?"

He blinks. "That – is correct, actually. And as for your previous question -"

"Mr. Holmes," Mrs. Acton interrupts, leaning forward, gaze sharp. "Perhaps you'd like to tell us _how_ you solve so many mysteries."

* * *

Gone is the man who bites back words and chokes on the lumps of hard bitterness in his throat. Gone is the man who withholds forgiveness, who wrestles with his anger on a daily basis – who would as soon shout and throw a punch or take a shot than deal patiently with an offense.

Here, instead, in Ella Thompson's sparse but pleasant office, is the man that Mary thought John Watson was – the man she knew he could be. Still passionate – still loyal – still fierce and unwavering in his search for justice, still adventurous, still setting the highest of standards for himself and his friends; but - he is not quite so quick to doubt the intentions and humanity of those in his life – especially of one friend, in particular.

In other words – he _trusts._

"-and, she – she handled it – like a _queen._ My little girl handled it like a _queen._ Honored- " he clears his throat – "honored her mum, and Molly, and Mrs. Hudson – she made them all _special_ on Mother's Day. So," he continues, looking – a bit ruefully – at the woman across the room from him. "So you were right, really. My wife – my wife died. She died, but she's not – _gone._ Not completely. I mean-" he hastens to correct, seeing Ella raise an eyebrow in question – "I mean, I don't _see_ her anymore. Not for - years, now. But – her memory. You know. Anyway. And I'm not – _alone_ , in raising Rosie. She's got-"

John blinks rapidly for a moment, and a grin breaks out. "She's got – an impressively devoted uncle - "

* * *

"I apply the sciences of observation and deduction." When Sherlock is met with blank stares – and a pleading one from one face in particular, he continues, clasping his hands behind his back. "For example-" his gaze meanders about the room, until it narrows on one particular individual. "I can deduce, Mr. - Collins, is it? - that you play cricket, based on the wear of the soles of your shoes and the callouses on your index fingers and thumbs, and those same callouses tell me that you are a better wicket-keeper and fieldsman than you are a bowler or striker. You're gripping the bat too hard. You may also want to get your eyes checked, you may need prescription glasses. Astigmatism may be affecting your ability to focus on the ball."

Timothy Collins looks at Sherlock in awe, but the man in question has already moved on. "Ms. Bakshi, your favorite class is art. Your workspace, to be quite frank, is a bit of a mess – no offense intended, my own workspace is considerably worse - however – your markers, pencils, and sketchbook are neatly kept nearest to your dominant right hand, so that they are easily accessible. You also keep looking at the clock. I am aware that particular class begins in less than twenty minutes, now."

Divya Bakshi ducks her head sheepishly, and Sherlock continues –deducing several more students with surprising restraint and thoughtfulness until he reaches the subject of his motive for coming today.

* * *

"-not to mention the _other_ uncle – Mycroft. How she managed to wrap _him_ around her finger is -"

For the first time, Ella shifts slightly in her chair, eyeing the vents in the wall suspiciously. "Perhaps it's better not to mention Mycroft directly."

John grimaces, pausing for a beat. "Er – right. Sorry 'bout that, by the way."

"No trouble."

John gives her a _look_ , and Ella quickly amends – "Well, all right – maybe just a bit of trouble."

They both laugh.

* * *

"Thanks, Uncle Sherlock." Rosie's quiet voice pierces the silence of the halls as they make their way to the front of the school, her short legs working double time to keep up with him. "For getting Maggie off the hook. I _knew_ she didn't write those words on the desk. She's my best friend, you know."

"Yes, well…" he's checking his mobile as they go, already more than ready to escape the particular horror that accompanies the early primary grades, and the unintended uproar he'd caused not ten minutes ago. "She was wrongly accused. Simply being in possession of incriminating evidence does not make one the perpetrator. You owe me, Watson," he responds amiably, distractedly ruffling her hair as they reach the door.

"Sorry about the last half. I thought everything went really well up until Daniel asked about you jumping off the building."

Sherlock's lips turn up, though he tries not smile, and he inclines his head. "My fault, really. My particular career isn't exactly full of appropriate topics for seven and eight year olds. Forgive me if I was – underprepared." He moves to pocket his mobile when a notification alerts him of a new text. He looks at it and his expression changes – he relaxes into a familiar small, genuine smile.

"Aunt Molly's coming home early, then?"

The warmth in Sherlock's expression now transfers to the little girl before him, blonde curls pulled back from her face with a bright red headband. "And how did you deduce that, Watson?"

She grins at him. "You only smile like that when it's something from her."

"Clever girl. We'll make a detective out of you yet." He responds to his wife and tucks the device into his coat pocket.

"Mmm. What if I want to do something else?" There's a mischievous glint in her eyes, and she tilts her head, raising her eyebrow in a gesture that is very _Mary_.

"Pathology?"

"Mmm-mmm." She shakes her head in the negative, once, and smirks at him.

"Chemist?"

She shakes her head again.

"Doctor? Special agent? Police officer?" Sherlock narrows his eyes at her.

"Nope." She pops her 'p' just like him and shakes her head yet again, giggling.

He frowns at her in mock concern.

"Maybe – a small job for the British government?" She draws out the last word and peers up at him through her eyelashes, the tiniest goading grin on her lips - waiting expectantly.

Sherlock glares at her in mock horror, knowing his brother put her up to it. "That's it – no more tea with Mycroft for you."

She laughs openly as he stoops down so she can kiss him on the cheek good-bye, and he leaves her school for the day.

* * *

"She's got Sherlock's parents and Mrs. – Nana – Hudson, as grandparents, and – the thing is – they're marvelous. They're amazing. It's like – they were all made for it – to be grandparents, yeah? Sort of makes you wonder how they churned out such…well. Maybe never mind that. The – well – the other sibling is - doing much better, now. Even – she even composes songs, with Sherlock. For the girls. Did I tell you that?"

"Mmmhmm. Still feeling - ?"

John shifts and thinks for a moment. "Wary, if I'm being honest. But – Molly seems to be okay with the songs, at least, and I trust her judgment most. They are beautiful."

"And Harry?"

"And there's Harry, too. When she's up to it. Anyway – my point is – she's got quite the extended family."

* * *

Sherlock knocks on the door to Mrs. Hudson's flat after fielding a text from Lestrade about the recent string of burglaries in Greenwich. (It's a somewhat promising case; in addition to jewelry, electronics, and other valuables, each home is also robbed of their pet's food and water dishes.) He lets Greg know he and John are available to go over the latest crime scene in the morning – and then texts John to tell him they're on a new case tomorrow – at least until his shift at the clinic starts at ten.

Mrs. Hudson answers the door with a knowing smile on her face.

Sherlock steps through the door and looks around the room, eyebrows drawn together in mock concern. "Oh dear. What a bother. Has she disappeared again?"

Mrs. Hudson nods sagely. "I'm afraid so, Sherlock. You know how she is, these days – a master of disguise. I haven't the-" she's interrupted by a distinctive giggle, and continues on breezily. "I haven't the foggiest idea where she might be."

"Hmmmm," Sherlock hums, moving about the room. "Now, I _know_ she's not in the kitchen, because from here I can see her cup and plate are drying on the counter, so she's already had her lunch. And I don't see any feet peeking from beneath the table, either."

" _Peep."_ A little sound interrupts his monologue, and he turns sharply toward it.

"Not behind the couch; she got stuck the last time and I _know_ my girl is far too clever to try that again." He inclines his head toward Mrs. Hudson, eyebrows raised in shared humor, and the older woman chuckles softly. "The door to the bathroom is open, but-"

" _Peep."_

"-it's open all the way, and she can't fit behind it when it's all the way open. Since I don't _see_ her anywhere else-"

" _Peep!"_ The voice gets just a bit louder and just a little bit more insistent, and Sherlock knows she's getting impatient. He's known all along where she is, and he strides toward the floor-length drapes in Mrs. Hudson's sitting room, pausing just before them. She's still so small at three years old that were it not for the slight movement in them and the bell-like giggle coming from behind them, no one could see her there.

"-she _must_ be-" He flings the drapes aside dramatically – " _here!"_

His daughter shrieks with delight and he scoops her up, tickling her lightly on her ribs, and her laughter turns to the full-belly sound of a young child in a state of pure happiness.

Sherlock holds her carefully as she scrambles away from his chest and beams up at him, her soulful brown eyes just a hair more toward the hazel side than Molly's. She throws her arms around his neck and buries her face in his shoulder, sighing contentedly. "I love you, Daddy."

Her voice is like soup for his soul, and the familiar warmth of his love for her spreads from his chest outward. "I love you too, little bee," he whispers into her hair. And then – more loudly – "Have you been busy today?"

She nods emphatically, and proceeds to tell him all about her day with Nana Hudson.

She's still talking ten minutes later, and Sherlock's eyebrows are raised as much in surprise as they are in a pleading cry for help, as she talks about how she sat at the wrong seat at the table at lunch and accidentally took a bite of Nana's sandwich and it had " _very_ spicy muss-ard".

Mrs. Hudson collects her things as she's talking, and Sherlock smiles at her over his daughter's head. _Thank – you,_ he mouths, and Mrs. Hudson smiles in response.

When the little girl in Sherlock's arms takes a breath, Mrs. Hudson interrupts. "She was an absolute _dear_ today, Sherlock. How did the case with John go this morning? All wrapped up, then? And Rosie's career day this morning?"

Sherlock snorts. "Career Day – well. I'll be surprised if Molly's not already fielding calls from the headmaster. But Maggie's name has been cleared, so I suppose I should consider that a job well done. And the case went - well." He pauses and pulls a face. "John will never let me live it down."

"Oh?"

He sighs. " _Chimerism,"_ he murmurs darkly under his breath.

"What was that?" Mrs. Hudson leans in, curious.

Sherlock lets out an exaggerated huff of air. "She _was_ the mother all along."

"She was? But – they'd tested her DNA – _twice -_ "

"Yes. Apparently, in the womb, she'd had a - sister that she'd absorbed about halfway through gestation. Her sister's DNA survived within her reproductive system, but did not match the DNA present in Ms. Ploughman's saliva, hair, or skin." His words get slower as he finishes the sentence, as though reluctant to part with that information. His jaw works in distaste for a moment, afterward.

"So she was their mother. That poor woman!"

"Yes. Not a baby thief, kidnapper, or surrogate scam."

Mrs. Hudson tilts her head thoughtfully and blinks, thinking for a moment, and an amused expression blooms on her face. She raises her eyebrows at Sherlock meaningfully. "You say she absorbed her sister in the womb?"

Sherlock hums in affirmation, and moves toward the door, suddenly looking strained. He shifts his daughter on his hip. She is already blinking sleepily with her head on his shoulder, and he knows there's an _excellent_ chance she'll fall asleep on the way home. "Er – Mrs. Hudson," he says suddenly, his voice filled with cheery benevolence - and she looks at him expectantly – and also a little shrewdly. "There's a bit of a – mess, in John's old room upstairs, from where the girls were playing yesterday while we were sorting out the client's medical history and DNA results, and the testimonies we acquired in Cornwall. D'you mind, terribly-"

Mrs. Hudson shakes her head at him fondly, and the distraction seems, to Sherlock, to have worked. "Still not your housekeeper. The girls are old enough to pick up their toys when they come next. When, do you think-?"

Sherlock's shoulders straighten in relief. "Molly has them both after Rosie gets off school tomorrow afternoon. I believe they'll be at our place tomorrow; Molly will want to straighten things up at home after her conference in Glasgow."

Mrs. Hudson gives him a pointed look, and he shifts his daughter again before answering, defensive. " _Her_ things, Mrs. Hudson – her _work_ notes from her conference! I am perfectly capable of maintaining a home for three days. Everything is ready for her return, which we are _all_ eagerly anticipating. So – to answer your question – John and I will be here tomorrow; Lestrade has just invited us to take a look at the string of burglaries happening in Croydon. Molly and the _girls-_ "

"-are welcome to come over for supper. I've got a roast that needs cooking soon, and-"

Sherlock closes his eyes, his patience wearing thin as the weight of his daughter and the anticipation of his reunion with his wife bears down on him. "Excellent. Thank you. Now-"

"Of course, of course – go home, Sherlock." She smiles at him, and though there is no note of wistfulness in it – simply the knowing playfulness of a very dear, very old friend – he is suddenly struck by the fact that she is getting quite a bit older, and he swallows.

"You do know, Mrs. Hudson, that Baker Street will _always_ be a home to us."

She waves her hands in front of her, dismissing his concern with a wrinkle of her nose. "Oh, I _know_ dear. But it's really not as baby-friendly as your place, now, is it? Now go on, Sherlock. I'll see you all tomorrow night for supper."

"Thank you," he says, giving her a quick peck on the forehead. "You are a wonder, Mrs. Hudson."

"Oh, _you_." Mrs. Hudson titters, beaming.

"Oh _Daddy_ ," The little girl in Sherlock's arms repeats, grinning and mimicking her Nana's tone, before a large yawn interrupts her.

"Let's go home, shall we?" Sherlock asks, but she's already returned her head to his shoulder.

Mrs. Hudson shuts the door behind them, already whipping out her mobile to check John's blog. Just as she suspected, John's updated already – a slapdash entry just before his therapy appointment - the heading bold and capitalized beneath the date -

 **IT WAS TWINS!**

 _More to come later. Just had to update to let the world know that for once – I was right - IT WAS TWINS!_

Mrs. Hudson chuckles to herself, one hand resting over her mouth as she sends a text to Molly.

* * *

"And – of course- there's Molly. I think – sometimes – no – really, I _know_ – just – that – God put us on this earth in the same time and space as her for a reason."

* * *

Sherlock knocks softly on the bathroom door before he enters, knowing she'll already be in the shower and that she won't mind the interruption.

"Hello," Molly calls, as the steam from her shower hits him full in the face. He closes the door carefully behind him before he greets her, quickly and quietly divesting himself of his clothing.

"Hello."

"Sorry, the water pressure at the hotel was _terrible._ I feel like I have the whole three days' worth of shampoo in my hair still."

"No need to apologize," he drawls as he draws back the curtain and steps in beside her.

She makes a small sound of surprise as she finishes rinsing out her hair. "Did she fall asleep on the way home?"

"Mmm-hmm." Sherlock confirms, using his thumb to brush stray water droplets off of her brow and away from her eyes once she's done. His other hand finds purchase on her hip and he pulls her closer, pressing a soft kiss to her lips. "Fell asleep on the way home from Baker Street. She hasn't slept well the past two nights, she should sleep for another hour and half to two hours."

Molly smiles, eyebrow raised skeptically. "And you thought now would be a great time to try the whole 'let's-make-love-in-the-shower' thing, again?"

He snorts and gently turns the two of them so that she is pressed into the corner, his back taking the brunt of the water, now. "Of course not. I do _not_ want a repeat of last time." His hands rest on her hips, his thumbs swirling suggestive circles on her skin, and his lips barely leave hers as he talks, mumbling into her mouth. "I was going to move us into the bedroom first."

She only smiles more widely, though she can't deny the effect he's having on her right now. "You missed me that much?" She teases – but her breath hitches as he moves his attention from her lips to her jaw and neck, his fingers ghosting over her skin in that way that makes her hunger for more.

" _Noooo_ ," he murmurs, and she can feel his voice rumbling through her veins. He pulls away for a moment, and she takes him in – the droplets of water from the shower's spray clinging to his hair and skin and eyelashes, and she wonders with absolute and total gratitude – not for the first time – how on earth this is her life now. He smiles at her, small and genuine, and leans in to whisper in her ear – "More."

She kisses him then, and he gasps as her hands begin to wander – and he quickly makes good on his promise to move them to the bedroom.

* * *

When they have sated themselves with a reunion that was over a week in the making (he'd only arrived _just_ in time, Thursday evening, to share dinner and send Molly off to Glasgow) – door locked and monitor still broadcasting the soft sound of static and white noise from their daughter's bedroom – Sherlock is so far off in his thoughts – thoroughly enjoying this rare moment of peace and stillness, and the feel of his pulse beating in time with Molly's, skin to skin and heart to heart – that he misses the question Molly mumbles drowsily into his shoulder.

"Hmmm?"

She rolls to the side, and props her head up with her hand, her damp hair tangled over her shoulder. "How'd that case with John go?" She smooths an errant lock of hair from his forehead and traces the angles and planes of his face with her fingertips, before trailing them down his chest to rest over his heart. She looks at him innocently – but there's a mischievous glint in her eyes that Sherlock knows too well.

He narrows his eyes at her and he makes a cautionary noise in the back of his throat. "Molly," he says warningly.

"He seemed pretty keen on updating his blog," she continues on, and Sherlock groans in frustration, rubbing his hand over his face. "Mrs. Hudson sent me a text."

He pulls his hand away just enough to glare at her – but the expression doesn't hold for long. "Only twenty-nine documented cases of chimerism in the _world_ – and this client just _had_ to be number thirty."

"Well, he had to be right _once_ in his life," Molly says protectively, attempting to defend him – and then her eyes widen in horror as she realizes her unintended insult and she bites her lip to stifle a laugh. "No-"

Sherlock is already looking at her with the wicked gleam in his eye that she knows so well.

"-I did _not_ mean it that way. You-"

He rolls over, gently pinning her beneath him, and he smirks. "I'm telling."

"No. You _cannot_ tell him. You are sworn to secrecy, Sherlock Holmes. You keep your mouth shut."

He leans closer.

"Make me."

* * *

"And then – of course – she's got Gracie."

* * *

Persephone Grace Holmes wakes after a two-hour-and-twelve-minute nap, exactly. Sherlock knows this, because of the sound of her stirring and then the soft sounds she makes as she talks herself awake.

It's like she's trying out her voice – making sure it still works, that words still _mean_ things – "Papa papaaaa. Nana nanaaaa. Daddy and Mummy. Daddy and Mummy and Rosie and me. Uncle John and Rosie and- " here, she is caught off by a yawn. "-Rosie," she continues – "Rosie and Gracie and Tim and Steve."

(Tim – the name of Rosie's stuffed dog, which she has outgrown playing with, but has not yet outgrown sleeping with. Steve, the name Gracie had given to her own stuffed lovey, which was originally perhaps a unicorn but came off, after three years of loving, looking more like a narwhal.)

"Unacorms. Unacorms runs fast as horses. That's a gallop. But unacorms are faster, 'cause they're magic."

"Are they now?" Sherlock interrupts his daughter's musings, poking his head around her doorframe. She startles and sits upright, her hair chaos around her face – all blinking eyes and button nose and delighted grin.

"Daddy!" She struggles with the blanket for a moment before freeing herself and moon-walking across the bed, into his waiting arms. "Can I listen to the song Auntie Eurus made me? I wanna dance like a bah-rina."

Sherlock smiles down at her. "Perhaps in a bit. There's someone here-"

Grace nearly throws herself off of him at that, and he has to perform some swift maneuvering to keep her from falling head-first to the ground.

"Is Mummy home?! MUM-"

"Yes," he says, interrupting her surprisingly loud bellow. "Shall we say hello?"

"Um – _yes_." Grace pronounces, as though it is the most obvious thing in the world.

And it is.

His life is predictable, now. It is filled with notoriety and naptimes, chemical solutions and sticky hands, crime and death and life and laughter and kisses and yet – it is also so filled with possibilities that it feels, sometimes, like he'll never get to experience all the new bits fully. Like if he looks away from this life he's built for a moment, he will miss something incredibly important.

So he catalogs the way Grace's hand feels in his, how her fingers barely span the width of his palm. He notes the way her eyelashes look, still on her cheek, as her chest rises and falls in slumber. He memorizes the way she stumbles over certain consonants and misses certain vowels, and the way her laughter makes every other sound in the world seem dull in comparison.

He watches Molly read her stories before bed, making up different voices for different characters while Grace takes up just a _little_ bit more of her lap in their favorite plush chair every night.

He files away the way her eyes widen in wonder as he demonstrates how rainbows work, what happens when sodium bicarbonate and vinegar mix, and when he catches her attempting to do something she's not supposed to without even turning his head.

And in the same way, he treasures up all that he's given – from his daughter, from Molly, from John, from Rosie and Mrs. Hudson and his parents and brother and sister. He tucks away all these pieces of others that they have shared so generously with him, and he finds that he minds very little when he must give away pieces of himself in return.

* * *

"…and somehow, on top of it all - those two girls have even got half the MET wrapped around their fingers."

"You keep saying _she_ , John."

"Hmm?"

Ella leans forward, eyes kind and probing. "You keep saying _she_ has them, John – Rosie. But I think, from everything we've discussed – you should be using _we._ "

John blinks for a moment, and he nods in understanding. "You're right." He leans forward and rests his forearms on his knees, smiling at the ground before leveling his gaze at his therapist.

"You're right. _We_. _We_ have them. It's – it's definitely _we._ "

* * *

Mary Watson was right about a great many things.

But in the end - like Sherlock - Mary Watson missed something. One _very_ important detail.

Perhaps, to the unfeeling march of time that is history, all that matters are the legends - the stories - the adventures.

But that is not all that _matters,_ period.

Her mistake lies in the seemingly nominal difference of tenses.

They _were_ a junkie who solved crimes to get high, and a doctor who never came home from the war.

That is not who they _are._

To be sure, they are legendary in the way of David and Jonathon, Horatio and Hamlet – but perhaps, with a happier ending.

And their ending is happier, not because of what they've _done,_ but because of who they _are_ – who they have become.

They are doctor and detective, soldier and scientist.

But they are more than that.

They are legends, but they are also – simply – men.

They are human.

They are imperfect.

They are so very, deeply loved in the midst of those imperfections that their flaws, big and small alike, fade into the background of their lives as their strengths are amplified in the brilliant light of the love of those who see and know them best.

They are friends who have made themselves brothers.

They are fathers.

They are partners-in-crime and adventurers and helpers to those who have long given up hope of ever being helped.

They are sometimes wrong, and always forgiven.

They are family, and they are _loved._

* * *

THE END

* * *

 **A/N: Thank you, thank you – a million thank yous to everyone who has favorited, followed, reviewed, and messaged. Your encouragement means everything to my writer's heart. This has been a long road and I'm a little sad that it's over, but I look forward to more adventures in the future.**

 **I have a short one-shot from this universe in the works that will hopefully be written by Christmas (sadly, I am serious about that time frame.) My next more time-consuming story requires a lot of research. (Georgian Era Pirate AU?! I am actually PUMPED about it but…research.) I can make no promises as to when I will have time to actually commit to writing it. Sadly…er…it may not be for a loooonnggg time. Just wanted you to know I'm not disappearing forever, just working within the constraints of other more pressing demands.**

 **That chimerism case is based on the true story of Lydia Fairchild.**

 **"Not Today" by Imagine Dragons and "Water Under the Bridge" by Adele were songs I listened to a LOT while writing the bulk (i.e., up until the Sherlolly resolution) of this story. They are bittersweet and full of longing and unresolved conflict – and if some of that transferred into my writing, well – I give them credit for that.**

 **This story has been brought to you by borrowing from Doyle, Moffat, and Gatiss; by God's grace upon my sanity, time, ideas, and health; by late nights and (mostly) cooperative daughters; by chocolate and iced tea and Adele and Imagine Dragons, and, of course, by readers like you.**


End file.
